HANDBOOK  OF  POETICS 


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UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


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1895 


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A 


HANDBOOK  OF  POETICS 

/  rfs 

.Stuoents  of  lEnfiUst)  Ferse.  Ac^< 


FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE,  Ph.D., 

Professor  of  English  in  Haverford  College. 


BOSTON,  U.S.A.: 
PUBLISHED  BY  GINN  &  COMPANY. 
1895. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Presswork  by  Ginn  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


This  book  is  published  in  the  belief  that  many 
teachers  have  felt  the  lack  of  a  concise  and  systematic 
statement  of  the  principles  of  poetry.  Such  text-books 
are  taught  with  good  result  in  German  schools,  and  are 
intended  to  simplify,  not  to  complicate,  the  study  of 
literature.  The  greater  part  of  the  literature  taught 
in  our  schools  and  colleges  is  in  verse  ;  but,  in  too 
many  cases,  the  scholar  studies  poems  without  having 
acquired  any  definite  and  compact  knowledge  of  the 
science  of  poetry.  This  "  Handbook  of  Poetics "  is 
meant  to  aid  the  teacher  in  laying  so  necessary  a 
foundation. 

The  author  has  tried  to  take  a  .judicious  position 
between  exploded  systems  on  one  hand,  and,  on  the 
other,  those  promising  but  not  yet  established  theories 
of  the  latest  writers  on  Poetics  —  especially  in  the 
matter  of  Versification  —  which,  brilliant  and  often 
enticing,  have  nevertheless  failed  so  far  to  win  general 
assent.  Effort  has  been  made  to  be  accurate  without 
being  pedantic,  and  to  avoid  the  bareness  of  the  primer 
as  well  as  the  too  abundant  detail  of  the  treatise. 


iv 


PREFACE. 


Whether  this  effort  has  been  successful  or  not,  must 
be  tried  by  a  practical  test,  —  by  the  judgment,  not  — 
as  King  James  puts  it  —  of  "ignorants  obdurde,"  nor 
of  "curious  folks,"  nor  even  of  "learned  men,  quha 
thinks  thame  onelie  wyis,"  but  rather  of  "  the  docile 
bairns  of  knowledge." 

The  examples  are  by  no  means  intended  to  be  ex- 
haustive. Many  obvious  ones,  as  the  Olney  Hymns 
or  the  Dunciad  or  the  Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  are  omitted  for  the  same  reason  which  Cato 
gave  for  the  absence  of  his  statue  from  the  forum.  The 
pupil  should  collect  his  own  examples  as  far  as  he  can  ; 
and  every  scrap  of  verse  which  he  reads  should  be 
subjected  to  a  close  analysis  as  regards  its  meaning,  its 
style,  its  rhythm.  This  study  of  the  science  of  poetry 
is  altogether  distinct  from  the  art  of  rhetoric  :  the  two 
should  be  carefully  held  apart. 

Of  the  many  books  consulted,  Wackernagel's  Lec- 
tures on  Poetik,  and  the  works  on  Metre  by  Child, 
Schipper,  Ellis,  and  Ten  Brink,  may  be  named  as  espe- 
cially helpful.  The  article  on  "Poetry"  in  the  last 
volume  of  the  Eticyclopcedia  Britannica  did  not  come  to 
hand  in  time  to  be  of  use  even  in  the  revision  of  the 
proof-sheets. 

F.  B.  G. 

New  Bedford,  7  September,  1885. 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 


The  belief  that  this  little  manual  would  be  of  use 
in  the  study  of  English  poetry  has  been  strengthened 
by  the  welcome  it  has  received  from  many  of  our 
best  scholars.  In  this  second  edition  only  such  cor- 
rections are  made  in  the  text  as  seem  needed  for  the 
clear  statement  of  facts.  Attention  must  here  be 
called,  however,  to  a  slight  inaccuracy  in  the  first 
paragraph  on  p.  1 1  :  the  myths  about  Beowa  arose,  it 
is  true,  before  the  fifth  century ;  but  the  legendary 
and  historical  basis  of  the  epic  of  Beowulf  belongs 
to  the  end  of  the  sixth  century  (cf.  Wiilker,  Grund- 
riss  zur  Gescli.  der  Ags.  Lift.  p.  306).  As  the  par- 
agraph is  worded  it  does  not  seem  to  agree  with 
what  is  said  on  p.  13. —Again,  in  speaking  of  The 
Owl  and  the  Nightingale  (p.  32),  I  have  unaccounta- 
bly forgotten  to  mention  that  sort  of  poem  known  as 
Ftyting,  of  which  the  piece  in  question  is  the  first 
specimen  found  in  English  verse,  though  it  is  not 
strictly  identical  with  later  Flytings,  —  such  as  that 
between  Dunbar  and  Kennedy.  Both  forms,  how- 
ever, are  undoubtedly  borrowed  from  the  old  French 


vi 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 


jeu-parti  (cf.  Bartsch,  Chrestom.  343  f.)  in  which  two 
poets  take  opposite  sides  of  a  question  ;  and  which, 
in  its  turn,  Wackernagel  refers  to  the  influence  of  the 
Vergilian  eclogue.  This  pastoral  flavor,  however, 
hardly  justifies  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  in  calling  the 
delightful  but  noisy  dialogue  an  Idyll. 

In  Paul  and  Braune's  Beitrdge,  Vol.  IX,  Professor 
Kluge  has  recently  treated  the  history  of  rime  in 
Germanic  verse,  and  has  sought  to  establish  certain 
rules  and  tests  important  for  the  study  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  metres.  His  general  results  still  further 
strengthen  the  assertion,  made  on  p.  145  of  this 
book,  that  rime  is  a  natural  product  of  the  accentual 
system  ;  that  beginning-rime  is  for  a  while  sole  fac- 
tor in  binding  together  the  halves  of  a  verse ;  but 
that  end-rime  is  necessarily  developed  from  the  same 
impulse,  increasing  with  the  distance  from  such  early 
works  as  Beowulf.  Kluge  thus  adds  end-rime  to 
the  tests  of  later  composition.  In  regard  to  begin- 
ning-rime itself  (151  ff.),  it  is  perhaps  well  to  add  a 
caution  about  its  use  in  modern  verse.  Beginning- 
rime,  or  alliteration,  is  detected  by  the  ear,  not  by  the 
eye  (cf.  Eng.  Stud.  VIII,  390),  as  is  evident  if  we 
compare  'king:  knave'  with  'right:  wrong';  and  fur- 
ther, it  counts  chiefly  in  accented  syllables,  though  {cf. 
p.  153)  there  is  a  sort  of  subordinate  alliteration.  In 
Swinburne's  lines  — 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION.  vii 

A  delight  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes  : 
I  shall  hate  sweet  music  my  whole  life  long, 

we  see  the  force  of  the  second  rule.  No  real  begin- 
ning-rime exists  in  the  first  verse ;  it  does  in  the 
second  {hate:  whole).  Of  course,  the  first  has  sub- 
ordinate beginning-rimes  as  well  as  assonance ;  but 
the  fact  that  it  contains  no  real  alliteration  needs  to 
be  insisted  on,  were  it  only  to  counteract  the  influ- 
ence of  such  thoughtless  assertions  as  are  found  in 
some  of  our  standard  histories  of  English  Literature, 
—  eg.  that  alliteration  consists  in  "  words  beginning 
with  the  same  letter."  —  The  controversy  in  regard  to 
Middle-English  word-accent  is  still  very  active,  but  the 
whole  subject  is  here  practically  untouched,  as  it 
seemed  out  of  place  in  a  book  of  this  kind.  The 
description  of  the  King  Horn  metre  is,  therefore, 
meant  merely  as  the  most  general  information  possi- 
ble, and  will  not  bear  a  critical  analysis.  Meanwhile, 
Schipper's  recent  remarks  in  the  current  volume  of 
Englische  Studien,  184  ff.,  seem  very  sensible.  His 
views  were  set  forth  in  his  Englische  Metrik :  an  at- 
tack upon  them  by  Wissmann  will  be  found  in  the  An- 
glia,  V,  466  ff.  ;  and  there  are  many  other  voices 
which  have  been  raised  in  this  dispute.  A  brief 
statement  of  the  question  will  be  found  in  The  Na- 
tion, 1882,  Oct.  1 2th.     But  these  special  matters  of 


viii 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 


controversy  belong  outside  the  proper  limits  of  a  text- 
book. 

Lastly,  teachers  will  permit  the  suggestion  that 
where  a  class  has  some  knowledge  of  French,  it  would 
be  profitable  to  bring  out  the  excellence  of  our  own 
rhythm  by  comparing  it  with  the  metres  of  French 
verse.  Rules  and  examples  helpful  for  this  exercise 
will  be  found  in  T.  de  Banville's  Petit  Traite  de  Poe- 
sie  Francaise,  Paris,  1881. 

F.  B.  G. 

New  Bedford,  21  January,  1886. 


PREFACE  TO  THIRD  EDITION. 


Since  the  second  edition  of  this  book  was  printed, 
there  have  appeared  several  works  of  considerable  inter- 
est for  the  subject.  Very  recently,  Professor  F.  N. 
Scott,  of  the  University  of  Michigan,  has  published  a 
pamphlet  on  "The  Principles  of  Style";  and  a  few 
months  earlier,  he  and  Professor  Gayley,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  California,  put  forth  "  A  Guide  to  the  Liter- 
ature of  ^Esthetics."  In  both  of  these  pamphlets  will 
be  found  valuable  hints  for  those  who  wish  to  carry 
their  study  of  poetry  into  special  fields. 

These  are  mainly  guides  to  what  has  been  done.  Of 
original  work,  the  first  place  belongs  to  the  Poetik  of 
Wilhelm  Scherer,  a  posthumous  work  edited  by  his  col- 
league, Dr.  Meyer  (1888).  It  is  fragmentary,  but  even 
in  its  many  faults  it  always  contrives  to  be  stimulating 
and  aggressive ;  and  it  differs  from  the  annual  crop  of 
such'  works  in  that  its  author  takes  new  ground,  and 
quite  breaks  away  from  the  traditions  and  prejudices 
of  his  own  school.  As  the  present  "  Handbook "  is 
meagre  and  cautious  to  a  fault  in  its  treatment  of  the 

ix 


X 


PREFACE  TO  THIRD  EDITION. 


origin  and  nature  of  poetry,  this  opportunity  is  taken 
to  present  the  views  of  Scherer  on  these  two  points. 

I.  The  Nature  of  Poetry.  —  Scherer  calls  poetry 
"the  artistic  application,  or  use  (Anwendung),  of  lan- 
guage," with  the  limitations  that  not  all  poetry  is 
artistic  application  of  language  (e.g.,  Ballet,  or  Panto- 
mime, both  wordless,  may  yet  be  poetry) ;  and  that  not 
all  artistic  application  of  language  (e.g.,  a  sermon,  or 
other  persuasive  rhetoric)  is  poetry.  Yet  Scherer  con- 
cedes that  whatever  is  rhythmic  must  be  assumed  to  be 
poetry,  though  poetry  is  not  necessarily  rhythmic.  Such 
unrhythmic  forms  as  must  be  counted  under  the  head 
of  poetry  are  in  their  general  character  always  closely 
allied  to  the  rhythmic  forms  (p.  32).  Among  the  oldest 
phases  of  poetry  are  Chorus,  Proverb,  Tale  (Marc/ten), 
Charm,  and  Riddle.  The  first,  the  choral  song  of  the 
multitude  at  feast  or  sacrifice,  contains  all  rhythmic 
germs  of  later  poetry ;  chorus  and  dance  combined 
are  the  origin  of  rhythm.  [See  pp.  9,  135,  of  this 
Handbook.]  Yet  the  primitive  tale  was  unrhythmic  ; 
in  Scherer's  system  the  tale,  like  modern  romances 
(e.g.,  Scott's),  counts  as  poetry,  and  so  we  have  a  door 
opened  to  what  Mr.  Saintsbury  calls  "the  pestilent 
heresy  of  prose-poetry."  Choral  Song  and  Tale  are 
among  the  very  earliest  forms  of  poetry.  Here,  then, 
is  new  doctrine :  "  Oldest  form  of  epic  poetry  is  with- 
out doubt  the  [unrhythmic]  short  tale."     Some  indi- 


PREFACE   TO  THIRD  EDITION. 


xi 


vidual  told  such  a  story  to  the  crowd,  while  the  crowd 
was  itself  actively  poetic  in  the  chorus.  The  two  forms 
approached  each  other  and  formed  the  epic  ;  so  that 
the  oldest  phase  of  epic  poetry  must  have  been  a  mix- 
ture of  rhythmic  and  unrhythmic  material,  song  and 
tale  combined,  like  a  Scandinavian  Saga.  Gradually  the 
rhythm  spread  from  the  chorus  and  the  song  over  the 
whole  poem,  took  the  form  of  a  chant  or  recitation,  and 
so  produced  the  epic  as  we  know  it.  Scherer  assumes 
a  poet  or  maker  from  the  start,  and  thus  throws  over 
the  pet  theory  of  Jacob  Grimm,  and  of  the  whole 
Romantic  School,  that  oldest  poetry,  real  folk-poetry, 
always  " writes  itself." 

II.  The  Origin  of  Poetry.  —  Here  Scherer  frankly 
puts  on  the  badge  of  Darwinism.  To  be  sure,  Schiller 
furnishes  him  the  word  Spieltrieb ;  or,  to  speak  with 
Scherer,  "  entertainment,''  as  the  source  of  poetry  ;  but 
for  the  real  origin  of  the  thing,  recourse  is  had  to  Dar- 
win's views  on  the  expression  of  emotion  in  animals. 
Any  exercise  of  one's  muscles  may  be  undertaken  in 
order  to  express  or  give  pleasure ;  hence  our  laughing, 
our  dancing,  and  our  singing.  Singing,  like  birds'  notes, 
may  express  pleasure  and  desire.  The  love-lyric  may 
be  led  back  directly  to  a  song  analogous  to  that  of  the 
male  bird  in  mating-time.  In  short,  (a)  poetry  arises 
from  the  expression  of  pleasure  through  leaping,  rejoic- 
ing, laughing,  singing;  and  (b)  the  original  subject  of 
poetry  was  probably  erotic. 


xii  PREFACE   TO  THIRD  EDITION. 

It  seems  to  the  present  writer  that  this  theory  not 
only  eliminates  from  poetry  the  noblest  factor  of  all, 
human  sympathy  on  high  planes  for  human  joy  and 
sorrow,  but  hands  over  poetry  itself  to  the  dissecting- 
table  of  the  biologist.  Nevertheless,  as  a  curb  upon 
the  silliness  which  most  people  think  necessary  to  any 
talk  about  poetry,  Scherer's  book  will  have  a  salutary 
effect. 

In  the  "  Modern  Language  Notes "  for  December, 
1890,  Professor  Scott  corrects  the  mistake  into  which 
so  many  have  fallen  in  quoting  at  second-hand  Milton's 
comparison  of  poetry  and  rhetoric.  The  proper  words 
are  these:  '"To  which  [sc.  rhetoric]  poetry  would  be 
made  subsequent,  or  indeed  rather  precedent,  as  being 
less  subtile  and  fine,  but  more  simple,  sensuous,  and 
passionate."    [See  p.  4  of  this  "Handbook/'] 

On  p.  8  it  is  stated  that  English  "  book "  is  derived 
from  the  word  for  "  beech,"  which  is  Skeat's  etymol- 
ogy as  well  as  traditional  explanation.  Sievers,  how- 
ever,—  a  very  potent  authority, — now  denies  this  in 
Paul's  Grundriss  der  germanischen  Philologie,  I,  p.  241 ; 
and  supports  his  denial  with  good  argument.  "Book" 
meant  originally  "a  writing-tablet."  Moreover,  since 
Runes,  as  Wimmer  has  proved,  were  not  brought  from 
Rome  into  Germany  until  about  the  end  of  the  second 
century,  the  notce  mentioned  by  Tacitus  can  hardly  have 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  runic  alphabet. 


PREFACE   TO  THIRD  EDITION.  xiii 

It  only  remains  to  say  that  the  detailed  study  of 
Anglo-Saxon  metres  is  now  everywhere  based  upon  the 
masterly  investigations  of  Sievers  (Paul-Braune,  Bei- 
trage,  X  ff.),  which  have  shown  much  more  method  and 
regularity  in  our  old  rhythm  than  had  been  attributed 
to  it  by  earlier  researches.  Nevertheless,  what  is  said 
in  §  2,  Chap.  VII,  of  this  book,  though  needing  correc- 
tion in  detail,  is  fairly  true  to  the  spirit  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry. 

F.  B.  G. 


Haverford  College,  23  December,  1890. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  .  I 


PART  I:  SUBJECT-MATTER. 

Chapter  I.  —  The  Epic.  Epic  Poetry.  Written  Epic.  Later 
Forms :  Legends,  Allegory,  Reflective,  Descriptive,  Pasto- 
ral, Satiric,  Ballads    .  7 

Chapter  II.  —  Lyric  Poetry.  Sacred  Lyric.  Patriotic  Lyric. 
Lyric  of  Love.  Of  Nature.  Of  Grief.  Reflective  Lyric. 
Vers  de  Societe.    Other  Forms.    Lyrical  Ballads       .       .  40 

Chapter  III.  —  Dramatic  Poetry.  Beginnings.  Miracle  Plays. 
Moralities.  Foreign  Models.  Interlude.  Different  Kinds 
of  Drama.  Tragedy.  Comedy.  Reconciling  Drama. 
Other  Forms.    Outward  Form  of  Drama    .       .       .  -58 


PART  II:  STYLE. 

Chapter  IV.  —  Poetic  Style.  Historical  Sketch.  Tropes. 
Metaphor.  Personification.  Allegory.  Simile.  Tropes 
of  Connexion.    Of  Contrast  83 


Chapter  V.  —  Figures.     Repetition.     Contrast.  Combina- 
tion  118 


xvi 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


PART  III:  METRE. 

PAGE 

Chapter  VI.  —  Rhythm.  Quantity.  Accent.  Pauses.  Rime. 
Blank  Verse.  Qualities  and  Combinations  of  Sound.  Slur- 
ring and  Eliding   .  133 

Chapter  VII.  —  Metres  of  English  Verse.  General  Principles. 
Anglo-Saxon  Metres.  Transition  Period.  Chaucer's  Metres. 
Modern  Metres.  Verse  of  One  Stress  ;  of  Two  Stresses  ;  of 
Three  ;  of  Four  ;  of  Five  ;  Shakspere  and  Milton  ;  Verse  of 
Six  Stresses ;  of  Seven ;  Miscellaneous      .       .       .  .166 

Chapter  VIII.  — The  Stanza  or  Strophe.  The  Sonnet.  French 
Forms   234 


INTRODUCTION. 


POETRY  belongs  with  music  and  dancing,  and  is 
opposed  to  the  arts  of  painting,  sculpture,  and 
architecture.  The  latter  class  is  concerned  with  rela- 
tions of  space;  we  see  and  touch  and  measure  its 
products.  But  the  former  class  has  for  main  principle 
the  idea  of  motion,  of  succession,  and  therefore  deals 
with  relations  of  time.  In  fact,  the  three  arts  —  poetry, 
music,  dancing  —  were  once  united  as  a  single  art. 
Little  by  little,  their  paths  diverged  ;  but  for  the  oldest 
times  they  were  inseparable.  The  principle  governing 
this  single  early  art  was  harmony.  Harmony  consists 
really  in  repetition,  just  as  two  or  more  parallel  lines 
agree  or  harmonize  because  one  repeats  the  conditions 
of  the  other.  So  in  poetry,  or  music,  or  dancing,  a  cer- 
tain succession  of  accents,  or  notes,  or  steps  is  repeated, 
thus  establishing  the  relation  of  harmony.  To  be  sure, 
this  harmony  of  recurrence  is  found  to  some  extent  in 
all  speech  ;  in  poetry,  however,  it  is  carried  to  a  system, 
and  under  the  name  rhythm  or  metre  is  the  distinguish- 
ing and  necessary  mark  of  poetry.  Aristotle  and  his 
school  maintained  that  "  invention  "  was  the  soul  of 
poetry.  The  substance,  say  they,  is  the  main  thing. 
But  later  criticism  asserts  that  in  poetry  the  form 
(metre)  is  the  principal  requisite.  A  late  writer  has 
declared  that  "  metre  is  the  first  and  only  condition 
absolutely  demanded  by  poetry.,, 


2 


POETICS. 


Not  only,  however,  was  harmony  carried  further  in 
poetry  than  in  common  speech  (prose)  ;  the  element  of 
Adornment,  the  so-called  figurative  tendency  of  lan- 
guage, grew  into  a  system,  and  became  a  secondary 
mark  of  poetry.  Hence  Poetics  must  treat  not  only 
Metre,  but  also  Style. 

Further,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  the  metre 
and  the  style  must  be  used  in  setting  forth  some  worthy 
Subject.  Hence  the  three  divisions  of  Poetics:  Subject- 
Matter,  Style,  Metre. 

The  origin  and  the  nature  of  poetry  are  subjects  on 
which  it  is  easy  to  say  a  great  deal,  but  hard  to  say  any- 
thing definite  or  satisfactory.  Poetry  had  its  beginning 
in  religious  rites ;  it  was  a  ceremony  in  which  voice  and 
foot  kept  time,  —  a  wild  sort  of  hymn.  This  rude  germ 
grew,  became  an  art,  and  went  through  the  process  of 
"  differentiation  "  ;  till,  with  maturing  time,  Epic  was 
developed  and  yielded  certain  territory  to  Lyric  ;  both, 
finally,  ceded  ground  to  Drama  ;  and  from  these  three 
as  centres  went  out  a  variety  of  minor  divisions. 

We  may  be  quite  sure  of  the  early  origin  of  poetry. 
It  is  about  as  old  as  language  itself ;  and  it  invariably 
precedes  prose.  The  domain  of  prose  includes  the  rela- 
tions of  things  in  themselves  and  among  themselves. 
Poetry  submits  all  objects  to  an  imaginative  process, 
and  asks  how  they  concern  not  real,  but  ideal,  interests. 
The  popular  use  of  the  words  "poetic  "  and  "  prosaic  " 
—  as  applied  to  a  landscape,  or  the  like  —  shows  this  dif- 
ference. Perception,  imagination,  are  found  in  vigorous 
development  among  primitive  races ;  whereas  the  rea- 
soning powers,  the  faculty  of  abstraction,  are  at  their 
feeblest.     Hence  we  can   easily   understand   that  a 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


splendid  poem  could  arise  among  a  people  utterly 
unable  to  follow  the  simplest  processes  in  algebra  or 
geometry,  —  sciences  which  deal  with  the  relations  of 
things  among  themselves.  Undeveloped  races,  like  the 
North  American  Indians,  in  common  with  ordinary 
children,  speak  a  " poetic"  language,  —  i.e.,  one  based 
on  fancy  and  not  on  reason.  Every  known  literature 
asserts  this  precedence  of  verse.  Homer  came  before 
Herodotus,  —  and  turn  to  what  language  we  will,  its  old- 
est monuments  are  song.  Fables  and  traditions  all  point 
to  the  great  age  of  poetry.  The  Greeks  said  that  poetry 
was  invented  by  the  gods.  In  the  Norse  myth,  Saga 
was  Odin's  daughter  :  "  like  the  Muse,  Zeus'  daughter, 
she  instructs  men  in  the  art  of  song."  "  The  old 
I  poetry,"  says  J.  Grimm,  "  was  a  sacred  matter,  imme- 
diately related  to  the  gods,  and  bound  up  with  prophecy 
and  magic."  The  Gallic  druids  taught  their  sacred  lore 
in  verse  ;  and  many  ancient  laws  {e.g.,  of  the  Cretans) 
were  in  poetic  form.  Indeed,  Macaulay  went  so  far 
(Essay  on  Milton)  as  to  assume  that  the  older  poetry 
is,  the  better,  —  that  it  degenerates  as  civilization 
advances. 

The  nature  of  poetry,  —  what  is  poetry  ?  No  com- 
prehensive, positive  answer  can  be  given.  Many  have 
essayed  a  definition  of  poetry.  "  It  is  a  criticism  of 
life,"  says  one.  "  It  is  the  beautiful  representation  of 
the  beautiful,  given  in  words,"  says  another.  "  It  is 
imitation  by  words,"  says  Aristotle.  "  Poetry,"  defines 
Carriere,  "  speaks  out  the  thought  that  lies  in  things." 
Ruskin  (in  his  Modem  Painters,  corrected  in  his  Eng- 
lish Prosody)  calls  poetry  "  the  presentment,  in  musical 
form,  to  the  imagination,  of  noble  grounds  for  the  noble 


4 


POETICS. 


emotions. "  For  a  longer  and  spirited  definition,  cf.  Car- 
lyle,  On  Heroes,  Chap.  III.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  no  one 
of  these  definitions  is  scientific ;  they  are  all  aesthetic 
and  vague.  Or  else  they  simply  predicate  certain 
qualities  of  poetry, — as  that  it  is  "  simple,  sensuous, 
and  impassioned."  Only  a  negative  definition  of  poetry 
can  be  given  in  precise  terms ;  so  all  agree  in  calling 
many  characteristics  of  language  unpoetical.  But  there 
is  really  no  established  standard  by  which  we  can  try 
true  poetry,  as  a  chemist  tries  gold.  Practical  tests 
fail.  Thus,  Mr.  Swinburne  (with  other  critics)  con- 
demns Byron  and  lauds  Coleridge  ;  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold 
praises  Byron,  and  so  does  the  best  German  criticism  ; 
while  Mr.  Ruskin  lays  violent  hands  on  Christabel  {Eng. 
Prosody,  pp.  31,  32).  Again,  as  we  have  seen,  modern 
criticism  is  inclined  to  test  poetry  by  its  form  ;  but  so 
sound  a  critic  as  Dryden  declared  invention  to  be  the 
true  criterion  of  the  "  maker's  "  work.1 

The  reason  of  this  is  plain.  Poetry,  so  far  as  the 
higher  criticism  goes,  cannot  be  an  exact  science ;  for 
we  saw  that  it  differs  radically  from  prose  in  that  it 
deals  with  fancy,  and  is  foreign  to  abstractions  and  the 
rational  consideration  of  objects  in  themselves.  The 
qualities  of  a  triangle  appeal  to  the  rational  judgment, 
and  admit  of  absolute  precision  in  the  verdict  passed 
upon  them  by  the  mind.  Poetry  makes  no  such  appeal ; 
we  look  upon  poetry  in  the  shifting  lights  of  the  imag- 
ination. In  order  to  be  precise,  therefore,  we  must 
abandon  the  higher  criticism,  —  give  up  all  inquiry  as 

1  Sidney,  too,  regarded  verse  as  "  an  ornament  [but]  no  cause  to  Poetry," 
and  says:  "  One  may  bee  a  poet  without  versing,  and  a  versifier  without 
poetry." 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


to  the  inmost  nature  of  poetry,  and  the  tests  by  which 
we  try  the  highest  forms  of  poetic  expression,  —  and, 
accepting  poetry  as  an  element  of  human  life,  simply 
regard  those  facts  in  the  different  phases  of  poetry 
about  which  most  men  agree.  Ben  Jonson  distin- 
guishes "  the  thing  fain'd,  the  faining,  and  the  fainer  : 
so  the  Poeme,  the  Poesy,  and  the  Poet!'  All  study  of 
the  first  and  last  of  these,  the  poem  and  the  poet, 
whether  it  is  in  the  domain  of  criticism,  or  in  the 
school-room,  should  be  based  on  a  knowledge  of  "the 
faining,"  of  Poetry  itself,  its  principles  and  divisions. 
It  is  the  object  of  this  little  treatise  to  lay  down  those 
principles  in  as  simple  a  way  as  possible.  Great  care 
should  be  taken  to  distinguish  this  science  of  poetry 
from  the  art  of  verse-making.  Thus,  there  were  Old- 
Norse  schools  of  poetry  ;  and  the  same  sort  of  instruc- 
tion was  given  among  the  "  Meistersanger  "  of  Germany. 
The  science,  on  the  other  hand,  aims  to  formulate,  as 
far  as  it  can,  the  principles  of  poetic  expression.  It  has 
received  special  attention  in  modern  times  from  the 
Germans  ;  but  it  is  as  old  as  Plato  and  Aristotle. 
Among  the  modern  writers  who  have  brought  to  its 
discussion  a  wealth  of  critical  insight  are  Lessing  (espe- 
cially in  his  Laocoon,  1766),  Kant,  Goethe,  the  brothers 
Schlegel,  Schiller,  Hegel,  and  Vischer. 


Part  I. 


SUBJECT-MATTER 


CHAPTER  I.  —  THE  EPIC. 

Everyone  knows  that  two  of  the  most  important 
factors  in  human  affairs  are  Church  and  State.  Again, 
every  student  of  history  is  aware  that  the  further  back 
we  go,  the  more  intimate  are  the  relations  between 
these  two  great  powers.  Looking  towards  the  begin- 
nings of  civilization,  we  see  the  lines  of  statecraft  and 
priestcraft  steadily  converging.  Where  a  Gladstone 
stands  to-day,  stood,  some  three  centuries  ago,  a  Car- 
dinal Wolsey.  In  the  remote  past,  in  the  dawn 
of  history  (a  relative  term,  differing  with  different 
nations),  we  find  law  and  religion  to  be  convertible 
terms.  Even  in  highly-civilized  Greece,  the  Laws  — 
cf.  Sophocles,  Oed.  Tyr.  864  sqq.  —  were  sacred.  So 
it  was  with  our  own  ancestors,  the  Germanic  tribes, 
whose  nature  and  customs  fell  under  the  keen  eyes  of 
Tacitus,  and  are  noted  down  in  his  Germania.  Let  us 
take  his  description  of  the  Germanic  custom  of  casting 
lots, — a  ceremony  at  once  legal  and  religious.  He 
says  (c.  10)  that  "  a  branch  is  cut  from  a  fruit-bearing 
tree  and  divided  into  little  blocks,  which  are  distin- 
guished by  certain  marks,  and  scattered  at  random 


8 


POETICS. 


over  a  white  cloth.  Then  the  state-priest  if  it  is  a 
public  occasion,  the  father  of  the  family  if  it  is  do- 
mestic, after  a  prayer  to  the  gods,  looking  toward 
heaven,  thrice  picks  up  a  block.  These  he  now 
interprets  according  to  the  marks  previously  made." 

What  renders  the  ceremony  of  importance  to  us  is 
the  fact  that  the  "  interpretation "  Tacitus  mentions 
was  poetical,  and  that  the  " marks"  were  runes,  i.e., 
the  rude  alphabet  employed  by  the  Germanic  tribes. 
According  as  these  mystic  symbols  fell,  the  priest 
made  alliterating  verses  declaring  the  result  of  the 
ceremony.  The  letters  gave  the  key  to  the  rimes. 
Since  the  beech-tree  (Anglo-Sax.  doc,  "  book,"  but  also 
"  beech,"  like  German  Buck  and  Buche)  was  a  favorite 
wood  for  the  purpose,  and  the  signs  were  cut  in  (A.-S. 
writan,  "cut  into,"  then  "write"),  we  win  a  new  mean- 
ing for  the  phrase  "to  write  a  book."  Further,  to  read, 
really  means  to  interpret,  —  as  in  the  common  "  rede  the 
riddle."  So  in  the  original,  literal  sense,  the  priest  read 
the  writing  of  the  book.  Since  he  read  it  poetically,  and 
as  a  decree  of  the  gods,  and  as  something  legally  bind- 
ing on  the  people,  we  may  assume  (bearing  in  mind  the 
antiquity  of  priestcraft)  that  poetry,  the  earliest  form  of 
literature,  begins  among  the  priesthood  in  the  service 
of  law  and  religion.    [Cf  p.  3  of  the  Introduction.] 

But  this  unit  of  sacred  law  had  two  sides.  On  the 
one  hand  were  such  ceremonies  as  the  above,  —  a 
practical  use,  which  concerned  the  people.  Late 
"  survivals "  of  these  rites  may  still  be  found  in  the 
peasant's  hut  and  in  the  modern  nursery,  e.g.,  the 
time-honored  custom  of  saying  a  rime  to  see  who  shall 
be  "zV"  for  a  game.    But  on  the  other  hand  was  formal 


THE  EPIC. 


9 


worship,  —  the  purely  religious  side.  The  tribe  boasted 
its  origin  from  a  god,  and  at  stated  seasons  joined  in 
solemn  worship  of  its  divine  ruler  and  progenitor.  To 
this  god  the  assembled  multitude  sang  a  hymn,  —  at 
first  merely  chorus,  exclamation  and  incoherent  chant, 
full  of  repetitions.  As  they  sang,  they  kept  time  with 
the  foot  in  a  solemn  dance,  which  was  inseparable  from 
the  chant  itself  and  governed  the  words  (cf.  our  metrical 
term  "foot").  As  order  and  matter  penetrated  this 
wild  ceremony,  there  resulted  a  rude  hymn,  with  intel- 
ligible words  and  a  connecting  idea.  Naturally  this 
connecting  idea  would  concern  the  deeds  of  the  god, — 
his  birth  and  bringing  up  and  his  mighty  acts.  Thus  a 
thread  of  legend  would  be  woven  into  the  hymn, — 
a  thread  fastened  at  one  end  to  the  human  associ- 
ations of  the  tribe,  but  losing  itself  in  the  uncertainty 
of  a  miraculous  and  superhuman  past. 

But  a  third  element  comes  in.  Besides  the  legen- 
dary thread,  we  have  the  mythological.  In  order  to 
explain  the  natural  processes  about  him,  early  man 
peopled  the  universe  with  a  multitude  of  gods.  Or, 
to  speak  more  clearly,  he  attributed  will  and  passion  to 
the  acts  of  nature.  Something  dimly  personal  stood 
behind  the  flash  of  lightning,  the  roaring  of  the  wind. 
The  ways  and  doings  of  these  nature-gods  were  set  in 
order,  and,  of  course,  were  in  many  cases  brought  in 
direct  connection  with  the  tribal  or  legendary  god. 
Hence  a  second  sort  of  thread  woven  into  the  hymn,  — 
mythology.  But  both  legend  and  mythology  are  nar- 
rative. The  hymn  thus  treated  ceased  to  be  a  mere 
hymn.  The  chorus  and  the  strophe  were  dropped ; 
instead  of  sets  of  verses  (strophe)  the  verses  ran  on  in 


10 


POETICS. 


unbroken  row.  Single  persons  (minstrels)  took  the 
place  of  the  dancing  multitude,  and  chanted  in  a  sort 
of  "  recitative,"  some  song  full  of  myth  and  legend,  but 
centred  in  the  person  of  the  tribal  god.  Now  what  is 
such  a  song  ?  It  is  The  Epic.  [Epic,  from  Greek  Epos, 
a  "word,"  then  a  "narration":  cf.  Saga  =  something 
said.] 

It  is  important  to  remember  that  the  Epic  was  not 
the  result  of  that  individual  effort  to  which  we  now  give 
the  name  of  poetical  composition. 

To  use  Mr.  Tylor's  words  {Primitive  Culture,  i. 
273),  epic  poetry  goes  back  "  to  that  actual  experience 
of  nature  and  life  which  is  the  ultimate  source  of  human 
fancy."  Perhaps  "  source  "  is  not  quite  accurate ;  we 
should  prefer  to  say  that  it  is  experience  of  nature  and 
experience  of  life  (i.e.,  mythology  and  legend),  which 
awaken  and  stimulate  the  inborn  human  fancy,  that  is, 
the  creative  power  of  poetry.  This  creative  power,  in 
early  times,  when  the  great  epics  were  forming,  when 
their  materials  were  gradually  drawing  together,  lay 
rather  in  the  national  life  itself  than  in  any  individual. 
There  were  no  poets,  only  singers.  The  race  or  nation 
was  the  poet.  For  the  final  shape  in  which  these  epics 
come  down  to  us,  we  must  assume  the  genius  of  a 
singer-poet. 

We  note  further  that  the  personages  of  the  Epic  must 
be  humanized,  —  i.e.,  partake  of  our  passions  and  other 
characteristics.  Otherwise  they  could  not  awaken 
human  interest.  But  the  background  across  which 
these  huge  beings  move  must  be  the  twilight  of  legend 
and  myth.  —  Instead  of  taking  the  Homeric  poems  as 
illustration,  we  prefer  to  give  a  brief  outline  of  our  own 
national  epic,  —  Beoivulf. 


THE  EPIC. 


\Beowulf,  the  only  complete  epic  preserved  from  Anglo-Saxon 
heathen  poetry,  is  based  on  legends  and  myths  that  arose  among  the 
northern  Germanic  tribes  before  the  conquest  of  Britain  in  the  Fifth 
Century.  The  poem  in  its  present  shape  was  probably  composed  at 
one  of  the  Northumbrian  courts  before  the  Eighth  Century.  The 
Ms.  is  a  West  Saxon  copy  of  the  Tenth  Century.  There  are 
besides  a  few  fragments  preserved.  Probably  many  other  Anglo- 
Saxon  epics  were  lost  in  the  wholesale  and  wanton  destruction  of 
Mss.  when  the  monasteries  were  broken  up  under  Henry  VIII.] 

The  story  of  Beowulf  is  now  becoming  familiar  to  all 
readers  ;  we  give  a  bare  outline.  A  powerful  king  of 
the  Danes  (Hrothgar)  builds  a  banquet-hall.  But  he 
does  not  enjoy  it  long.  A  dreaded  monster  (Grendel) 
lives  in  the  neighboring  fen,  and  hears  with  envious 
heart  the  sounds  of  revelry.  So  he  comes  at  dead  of 
night,  enters  the  hall,  seizes  thirty  of  the  sleeping  vas- 
sals, and  bears  them  off  to  be  devoured  in  his  home. 
Nothing  can  withstand  him.  The  banquet-hall  lies 
empty  and  useless.  Over  the  sea  lives  a  hero  who  is 
moved  to  help  Hrothgar.  The  hero's  name  is  Beowulf. 
He  bids  his  men  make  ready  a  boat,  and  with  fourteen 
vassals  puts  to  sea.  He  arrives  at  Hrothgar's  court, 
and  a  grand  banquet  is  held  in  the  hall  ;  but  at  night 
the  Danes  retire,  leaving  Beowulf  and  his  warriors  to 
guard  the  post  of  danger.  Grendel  comes,  and  a  terrific 
combat  follows  between  him  and  Beowulf,  which  ends 
in  victory  for  the  latter.  He  tears  out  Grendel's  giant 
arm  from  its  socket  ;  with  "  shrill  death-song "  the 
monster  reels  away  to  die  amid  his  fen.  That  day  the 
Danes  and  their  deliverers  rejoice,  and  there  is  another 
feast.  The  Danes  now  remain  in  the  hall  ;  Beowulf 
goes  elsewhere.  With  night  comes  the  mother  of 
Grendel,  a  huge  and  terrible  monster,  to  avenge  her 


12 


POETICS. 


son's  death,  and  kills  one  of  the  dearest  vassals  of  the 
king.  The  next  morning  Beowulf  goes  on  a  quest  of 
vengeance.  He  comes  to  the  dismal  home  of  the  mon- 
ster, plunges  into  the  dreary  waters,  and  far  below  the 
surface  meets  and  conquers  the  hideous  being.  The 
foes  of  Hrothgar  are  now  put  to  death,  and  Beowulf, 
laden  with  gifts  and  honor,  returns  home. 

Fifty  years  pass.  Beowulf  is  an  old  king  who  has 
ruled  with  strong  hand  and  gentle  heart  over  his  people. 
But  now  a  dragon  comes  to  waste  the  land.  The  old 
hero  girds  on  his  armor  for  a  final  struggle.  He  goes 
down  to  the  dragon's  cave ;  but  at  sight  of  the  monster, 
belching  flame,  the  vassals  of  Beowulf  ignominiously 
fly,  and  the  king  fights  single-handed  and  weary  against 
the  fire  and  poison  of  the  dragon.  At  last,  one  young 
warrior,  ashamed  of  his  flight,  returns  ;  and  together, 
king  and  vassal  slay  the  monster.  But  Beowulf  is 
mortally  wounded.  After  a  few  strong  words,  exulting 
that  he  has  fought  the  good  fight  of  life,  he  dies. 
They  build  a  great  mound  for  him  by  the  sea,  and 
bury  him  with  honors  of  flame  and  song. 

This  is  the  epic  of  Beowulf.  Now  let  us  try  to  trace 
those  threads  of  myth  and  legend  mentioned  above. 
We  should  guard  against  a  too  implicit  trust  in  appar- 
ently conclusive  parallels  between  mythology  and  epic  ; 
but  still,  in  taking  the  following  analysis  (mainly  that 
of  Mullenhoff  and  Ten  Brink),  we  shall  not  be  far  out  of 
the  way.    The  principle  is  sound. 

The  northwest  coast  of  Europe,  where  our  epic  had 
its  origin,  is  exposed  to  the  ravages  of  ocean  storms. 
Over  the  low  lands,  along  the  borders  of  the  Cimbrian 
peninsula,  swept  in  fury  the  tempests  of  spring  and  fall. 


THE  EPIC. 


13 


The  sea  broke  its  bounds  and  raged  over  the  flat  coun- 
try, sweeping  away  houses  and  men.  Against  these 
wild  storms  came  the  gentle  spring-god,  the  god  of 
warmth  and  calm.  This  god  men  called  Beowa.  The 
god  conquers  the  monsters  of  the  stormy  sea,  follows 
them  even  into  their  ocean  home  and  puts  them  to 
death.  Grendel  and  his  mother  may  fairly  be  taken  as 
types  of  these  storms.  In  autumn  they  burst  forth 
afresh.  The  waning  power  of  summer  closes  with  them 
in  fiercest  struggle.  After  long  combat  both  the  year 
and  the  storms  sink  into  the  frost-bound  sleep  of  winter. 

So  much  for  "the  experience  of  nature," — i.e.,  myth- 
ology. Now  for  the  "experience  of  life," — legend. 
History  tells  us  that  early  in  the  Sixth  Century,  one 
Hygelac,  king  of  the  Getae,  came  down  from  the  north 
and  went  plundering  along  the  Rhine.  The  Frankish 
king,  Theudebert,  met  and  fought  Hygelac,  and  the  lat- 
ter fell.  His  follower  and  nephew,  however,  Beowulf, 
son  of  Ecgtheow,  did  great  deeds.  Fighting  until  all 
others  had  fallen,  he  escaped  by  a  masterful  piece  of 
swimming,  and  went  back  to  his  island  home.  His 
fame  spread  far  and  wide.  He  grew  to  be  a  national 
hero.  Songs  were  sung  about  him.  Wandering  min- 
strels chanted  his  praise  from  tribe  to  tribe.  What 
these  wandering  minstrels  were,  and  how  important 
was  their  profession,  may  be  gathered  from  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  poem,  which  is  probably  "the  oldest  monument 
of  English  poetry," —  Wtdstth,  "the  far-wanderer."  In 
the  one  hundred  and  forty-three  verses  preserved  to  us, 
the  minstrel  tells  of  his  travels,  of  the  costly  gifts  he 
has  received,  of  maxims  of  government  he  has  heard, 
of  famous  heroes,  kings  and  queens  whom  he  has  visited 


POETICS. 


(a  wild  confusion  of  half  historical,  half  mythical  names 
from  different  lands  and  times),  and  of  the  countries  he 
has  seen.  He  refers  to  some  evidently  well-known 
legends.  Widsith  is  the  ideal  minstrel ;  and  this  strange 
poem  gives  us  ample  hints  as  to  the  spread  of  legends 
by  men  of  his  craft.  Then,  too,  Tacitus  tells  us  of  this 
custom  {Ann.  2,  88) ;  Arminius,  liberator  of  Germany, 
"  caniturque  adhuc  barbaras  apud  gentes."  1  In  all  this 
singing,  there  was  small  risk  that  Beowulf's  deeds  would 
lose  any  of  their  greatness.  In  fact,  they  acquired  at 
length  certain  touches  of  the  supernatural. 

Thus,  then,  we  have  hymns  in  honor  of  Beowa,  the 
liberating  and  national  god ;  songs  in  honor  of  Beowulf, 
the  national  hero.  Little  by  little,  the  two  became  one 
person  ;  and  myth  and  legend,  hymns  and  songs,  crys- 
tallized about  the  common  centre,  until  some  gifted 
minstrel  gave  them  form  and  unity  in  the  epic  of  Beo- 
wulf. Unfortunately  the  form  halts  behind  the  mat- 
ter :  owing  to  the  rapid  christianizing  of  England,  the 
epic,  says  Ten  Brink,  was  "  frozen  in  the  midst  of  its 
development.,,  Such  as  it  is,  however,  it  is  a  noble 
herald  of  the  long  line  of  English  poetry. — We  now 
abandon  the  historic  method,  and  look  at  the  epic  as  it 
lies  before  us  as  well  in  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  as 
in  Beowulf. 

1Jornandes,  writing  about  552  A.D.,  mentions  the  legendary  songs  of 
the  Goths.  Thus,  in  regard  to  their  migration  toward  the  Black  Sea : 
"  quemadmodum  in  priscis  eorum  carminibus,  psene  historico  ritu,  in  com- 
mune recolitur."    Cf.  W.  Grimm,  Heldensage,  1. 


THE  EPIC. 


§  I.    GENERAL  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  EPIC. 

1.  The  epic  must  rely  solely  on  Imagination  and 
Memory.  It  deals  with  the  past,  while  lyric  poetry 
deals  with  the  present.  The  individual  author  has 
little  to  do  with  the  epic.  The  singer  is  a  part  of  what 
he  sings,  whereas  in  lyric  poetry  the  lyric  is  a  part  of 
the  singer,  is  subjective.  We  may  call  most  modern 
poetry  a  manufacture,  something  made;  the  epic  is  a 
growth.  It  is  based  on  what  has  happened  (history), 
or  what  men  think  has  happened  (legend  and  myth). 
An  epic  nearly  always  begins  by  telling  zvhat  it  is  going 
to  sing  :  it  is  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  the  wanderings  of 
Ulysses,  the  woes  of  the  Nibelungen.  Very  striking  is 
the  form  of  the  Germanic  epic,  "We  have  heard,"  or 
"I  (the  singer)  have  heard."  There  is  no  invention. 
Indeed,  the  fate  and  story  of  his  hero  were  generally 
well  known  to  the  minstrel's  audience.  His  skill  lay  in 
presenting  the  legend  with  freshness  and  force. 

2.  The  epic  is  simple  in  construction.  It  must  flow 
on  with  smooth  current,  bearing  the  hearer  to  a  defi- 
nite goal.    The  metre  must  be  uniform. 

3.  The  epic  enforces  no  moral.  It  tells  a  story,  and 
the  moral  is  in  solution  with  the  story.  As  Aristotle 
says,  the  epic  "represents  only  a  single  action,  entire 
and  complete."    There  is  no  comment  on  that  action. 

4.  The  epic  concentrates  its  action  in  a  short  time. 
In  the  Iliad  the  important  events  happen  in  a  few  days, 
though  the  war  lasts  ten  years.  In  the  Odyssey  the 
time  is  six  weeks.  In  Beowulf  vie  have  two  main  sit- 
uations, in  the  first  part  taking  up  little  time,  and  in  the 
second  part  one  brief  scene. 


i6 


PONTICS. 


5.  Among  the  minor  characteristics  of  the  epic  may 
be  mentioned  its  love  for  Episodes.  An  episode  is  a 
story  apparently  not  needed  for  the  main  plot  of  the 
poem,  but  really  necessarily  connected  with  some  part 
of  the  action.  In  the  Aeneid,  the  story  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  Troy  is  a  good  example  of  the  episode. 

6.  The  singer's  memory  in  those  days  of  no  written 
records  was  prodigiously  strong.  Often,  too,  he  im- 
provised passages.  Hence  he  needed  rests  in  his  song. 
These  were  supplied  by  the  repetition  of  certain  sen- 
tences, often  of  whole  speeches  —  as  frequently  in  the 
Odyssey.  So  there  were  many  phrases  and  epithets 
which  were  common  property  and  became  epic  formulas  : 
"the  wine-dark  sea"  was  such  an  epithet;  "now  when 
they  had  put  away  the  wish  for  meat  and  drink"  was 
such  a  sentence.  Epithets  were  particularly  character- 
istic of  our  own  epic.  Thus  for  "  sea "  we  have  "  the 
whale's  path,"  —  a  trope  known  to  the  Norse  epic  as  a 
Kenning.    (Cf.  Part  II.) 

7.  The  epic  loves  dialogues.  This  dramatic  element 
makes  the  story  livelier,  and  gives  the  singer  opportu- 
nity to  do  a  little  acting  as  he  chants  his  verses. 

8.  Finally,  we  must  remember,  that  in  general  it  is 
the  action  of  the  whole,  rather  than  the  character  of 
the  particular,  that  is  of  chief  importance  in  the  epic. 
In  the  drama,  on  the  contrary,  the  action  depends  on 
the  characters  ;  they  shape  it,  determine  it :  in  any 
mind  the  character  of  Hamlet  outweighs,  in  import- 
ance, his  story. 

These  are  the  more  prominent  traits  of  the  epic.  In 
its  purity  such  a  form  of  poetic  composition  is  national, 
i.e.,  it  is  the  spontaneous  growth  of  a  whole  people. 


THE  EPIC. 


17 


It  belongs  to  the  first  vigorous  manhood  of  a  race,  just 
as  the  race  is  becoming  conscious  of  itself  and  its  im- 
portance, and  mostly  it  springs  from  some  victorious  con- 
tact with  neighboring  tribes.  Thus  the  Greek  epic 
points  to  the  struggle  between  Hellenic  tribes  of  the 
western  and  eastern  shores  of  the  Aegean. 

[For  a  fair  summary  of  the  rise  of  an  epic,  see  the 
brief  Introduction  to  Butcher  and  Lang's  translation  of 
the  Odyssey.] 

§  2.     THE   WRITTEN  EPIC. 

Fancy  and  memory,  the  factors  of  the  national  epic, 
soon  have  a  rival.  As  in  individual  life,  so  in  the  life 
of  the  race,  close  upon  imagination  and  memory  follows 
reason.  As  reason  waxes,  fancy  wanes.  Reason  indu- 
ces man  to  search  after  causes,  not  to  trust  the  mere  im- 
pression of  the  senses.  But  belief  in  the  impressions  of 
sense  is  the  foundation  of  the  early  epic.  To  illustrate : 
a  child,  and  the  world  in  its  youth,  are  alike  satisfied, 
if  told  that  the  fire  is  eating  the  wood.  That  is  an 
impression  of  sense;  that  'tongues'  of  flame  'devour' 
the  wood  is  still  a  poetic  figure.  But  reason  begins  to 
ask  what  fire  really  is,  —  to  seek  the  cause,  to  exercise 
the  judgment  instead  of  the  fancy. 

Henceforth  reason  and  fancy  are  at  strife  ;  poetry  and 
science  separate.  This  means,  too,  that  poetry  becomes 
conscious  of  itself.  Conscious  poetry  cannot  be  spon- 
taneous, like  the  old  national  poetry.  Hence,  further, 
the  poet  becomes  a  distinct  personage ;  there  is  a 
"maker"  as  well  as  a  singer.  The  word  "maker," 
which  is  exactly  equivalent  to  the  Greek  word  "poet," 
is  used  by  our  earlier  writers  :  cf  Dunbar's  La?nent  for 


i8 


POETICS. 


the  Makaris.  Now  it  is  on  the  threshold  of  this  new 
age  that  the  great  epics  are  written,  —  such  as  the 
Odyssey  or  the  Iliady  and  our  own  Beowulf.  The 
singer  is  still  lost  in  his  song ;  no  personality  peeps  out 
of  his  work ;  but  it  is  his  genius  which  binds  together 
the  scattered  songs  and  hymns,  and  breathes  into  this 
mass  the  creative  breath  of  a  rich  imagination.  While 
the  result  is  still  national  and  spontaneous  in  origin, 
while  the  poet  has  simply  given  an  artistic  unity  to  his 
materials,  we  must  not  lose  sight  of  this  unifying  pro- 
cess and  its  importance.  The  Odysseyy  for  example, 
with  its  consummate  art  of  construction,  is  no  mere 
collection  of  ballads  jostled  into  unity. 

But  in  the  next  epoch,  the  period  of  the  written  epic, 
when  the  " maker''  claims  the  material  as  well  as  the 
form  to  be  his  own  work,  there  is  a  great  change.  It 
is  not  the  epic  ;  it  is  epic  poetry.  Men  ask,  "  Who 
wrote  this  ? " 

Thus,  our  Beowulf 'is  impersonal  —  a  true  epic.  The 
epic  poems  of  Cynewulf  (Eighth  Century),  though  like 
Beowulf  in  style,  are  very  different  in  other  respects. 
First,  the  poet  weaves  his  own  name  (in  Acrostics)  into 
his  verse,  thus  claiming  ownership  ;  secondly,  he  uses  a 
written  account  as  the  basis  of  his  narrative.  He  reads 
(not  "hears"  as  the  older  minstrel  did)  a  story,  and 
puts  it  into  verse.  But  this  implies  another  character- 
istic of  the  new  age, — literature.  Further,  this  literature 
is  not  only  national ;  —  the  spread  of  Latin  and  sacred 
lore  makes  it  international.  Poetry  can  now  deliber- 
ately choose  its  subject ;  it  has  different  roads  before 
it.  The  epic  process  still  goes  on,  but  new  customs 
disturb  it  and  break  up  the  grand  march  into  petty 
detachments. 


THE  EPIC. 


19 


§  3,    LATER   FORMS  OF  EPIC  POETRY. 

(1)  Legends  accepted  as  True. 

The  tendency  to  sing  about  national  heroes,  and  the 
battles  which  they  fight,  continues  in  force.  Thus  in 
the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  scattered  songs  flash  out 
from  the  monotony  of  prose ;  e.g.,  The  Battle  of  Brun- 
nanburh  (937).  Another  such  battle-ballad  (not  in  the 
Chronicle)  is  ByrhtnotK  s  Fall  (sometimes  called  The 
Battle  of  Maldoti),  a  spirited  song,  composed,  says 
Rieger,  so  soon  after  the  fight  that  the  poet  is  ignorant 
of  the  hostile  leader's  name.  All  the  fire  and  the 
impetuosity  of  the  old  epic  style  live  again  in  this 
1  ballad '  (993).  Under  the  Norman  yoke,  our  fore- 
fathers still  sung  their  favorite  heroes  ;  though  not  pre- 
served to  us,  these  songs  were  used  by  the  later  prose 
chroniclers  of  England.  Then  there  were  legendary 
characters  of  a  less  definite  kind  :  cf.  the  Lay  of  Horn 
and  of  Havelok.  In  another  similar  story,  Ten  Brink 
sees  a  late  form  of  the  Beowulf  myth. 

The  most  important  of  these  legendary  poems  is  the 
famous  Brut  of  Layamon  (about  the  beginning  of  the 
Thirteenth  Century).  It  is  simply  the  mythical  history  of 
Britain.  In  tone  and  manner  the  Brut  approaches  the 
old  national  epic  ;  it  is  partly  based  on  tradition  by  word 
of  mouth,  though  Wace's  Geste  des  Bretons  was  Laya- 
mon's  chief  authority.  Compared,  however,  with  mod- 
ern ventures  in  the  same  field  —  say,  with  Tennyson's 
Idylls  of  the  King  —  the  Brut  has  much  of  the  real  epic 
flavor.  From  Layamon  down,  these  national  legends 
have  been  extensively  drawn  upon  by  our  poets.  A 


20 


POETICS. 


catalogue  of  such  poems  belongs  to  the  history  of  our 
literature. — The  above  concerns  (a)  National  legends. 
We  now  glance  at  (b)  Legends  of  the  Church. 

In  the  first  place,  many  paraphrases  were  made  of  the 
Bible.  The  Old  Testament  was  partly  done  into  Eng- 
lish verse.  Thus,  that  Ms.  which  Franciscus  Junius 
took  to  be  the  work  of  Beda's  hero,  Caedmon,  but  which 
is  really  a  collection  of  poems  by  several  authors  and 
from  different  times,  contains,  among  other  poetical 
versions  of  the  books  of  the  Bible,  a  splendid  paraphrase 
of  Exodus.  Later,  there  were  other  versions  of  Genesis 
and  Exodus.  There  is  also  preserved  the  conclusion  of 
a  noble  Anglo-Saxon  epic  poem,  —  "Judith.  Cynewulf 
turned  for  material  to  the  numerous  sacred  legends : 
cf.  his  Elene,  or  the  Finding  of  the  Cross.  Later  poets 
treated  the  lives  of  the  saints.  Hovering  between 
national  and  sacred  legend  are  such  cycles  of  poetry  as 
that  which  treats  the  legend  of  the  Holy  Grail,  — 
e.g.,  the  story  of  "  Joseph  of  Arimathie."  These  all 
have  a  strongly  marked  moral  purpose,  —  something 
foreign  to  early  epic.  *  But  in  the  way  of  pure  narrative 
for  the  narrative's  sake,  nothing  can  be  better  than  those 
of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  which  treat  sacred  legend  : 
e.g.,  the  exquisite  Prioresses  Tale. 

We  have,  further,  international  literature  as  source  for 
poetry,  —  Legends  based  on  General  History  (e).  Latin 
once  made  possible  the  ideal  for  which  Goethe  sighed, 
—  a  world-literature.  In  the  mediaeval  Latin  there  was 
already  collected  a  rude  history  of  the  world.  In  dis- 
torted shape,  the  heroes  of  old  time  passed  through  the 
Latin  into  the  various  literatures  of  Europe,  which  all 
began  with  and  in  the  Latin  itself.    Each  great  hero 


THE  EPIC. 


21 


formed  a  centre  for  certain  '  cycles  '  of  stories  and 
legends  :  prominent  were  the  Alexander  Legends,  the 
^Eneas  Legends  ;  —  later,  the  Legends  of  Charlemagne, 
though  these  are  more  national.  A  branch  of  the  ^Eneas 
or  Troy  legend  was  that  of  Troilus,  which  afterwards 
busied  the  pens  of  Chaucer  and  Shakspere,  and  was 
immensely  popular  in  the  middle  ages.  A  great  aid  to 
these  legends  was  the  mass  of  stories  which  had  their 
origin  in  the  East,  —  in  India  and  elsewhere,  —  and  came 
in  the  wake  of  the  returning  crusades,  gradually  drift- 
ing into  every  literature  in  Europe.  Such  is  the  famous 
story  of  the  three  caskets,  brought  in  with  so  much  effect 
in  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  \Cf  the  story  itself  in  the 
E.  E.  T.  Soc.'s  ed.  of  the  Gesta  Romanornm.~\  Stimu- 
lated by  these  stories,  and  fed  by  them  in  great  meas- 
ure, arose  a  vast  array  of  Romances,  all  of  a  historical 
coloring.  Their  name  is  derived  from  the  Romance  or 
corrupted  and  popular  Latin,  in  which  many  of  these 
tales  appeared.  Romances  were  greatly  beloved  in  the 
middle  ages,  and  made  an  important  part  of  the  first 
books  printed  by  Caxton,  — "  joyous  and  pleasant  his- 
tories of  chivalry."  Finally,  they  were  killed  by  their 
folly  and  extravagance.  Cf.  Chaucer's  Tale  of  Sir 
Thopas ;  for  the  prose  romances,  Don  Quixote  was 
at  once  judge  and  executioner.  —  More  serious  work 
—  not  strictly  romances  —  may  be  seen  in  Chaucer's 
Legende  of  Goode  Women,  and  above  all  in  the  great 
Canterbury  Tales.  As  writer  of  tales,  as  "  narrative 
poet,"  Chaucer  is  without  a  peer  in  English  Literature. 
His  reticence,  in  that  garrulous  age,  is  sublime.  He 
omits  trifling  details,  not  caring  "who  bloweth  in  a 
trump  or  in  a  horn."  —  We  must  here  note  a  strange  use 


22 


POETICS. 


of  the  word  "tragedy/'  It  meant  for  Chaucer's  time 
the  story  of  those  who  had  fallen  from  high  to  low 
estate.    It  had  nothing  dramatic  :  — ■ 

44  Tregedis  is  to  sayn  a  certeyn  storie, 
As  olde  bokes  maken  us  memorie, 
Of  hem  that  stood  in  greet  prosperite 
And  is  y-fallen  out  of  heigh  degre 
Into  miserie.and  endith  wrecchedly." 

A  " comedy"  was  a  narrative  that  did  not  end  tragic- 
ally: cf.  Dante's  great  work. 

With  far  wider  sweep  of  history,  modern  poets  have 
greatly  increased  the  variety  of  romances  and  legen- 
dary poems.  Think  of  Evangeline  or  Hiawatha  on  one 
hand,  and  on  the  other,  of  the  Norse  legends  or  the 
classic  stories  of  William  Morris.  No  classic  themes 
have  ever  been  revived  with  such  power  as  in  Mar- 
lowe's (and  Chapman's)  Hero  and  Leander,  and  in 
Keat's  Hyperion.  The  field  is  practically  boundless. 
There  is  great  license  of  treatment.  The  poet  can 
adhere  closely  to  his  original,  or  he  can  invent  and 
change  at  will.  Such  cases  may  be  cited  as  the  roman- 
ces of  Scott  and  Byron. 

Under  this  head  belong  the  Riming  Chronicle  and  the 
Narrative  Didactic  poem.  The  first  is  a  history  in  rime. 
In  the  Thirteenth  Century  Robert  of  Gloucester  wrote 
such  a  chronicle  of  England  ;  later  (end  of  Fifteenth 
Century)  we  have  Harding  s  Chronicle.  As  poetry  they 
are  of  no  value  whatever.  —  The  second  class  we  may 
illustrate  best  by  describing  its  best  example.  In  1559 
appeared  a  book  called  "A  Myrronre  for  Magistrates, 
wherein  may  be  seen  by  example  of  other,  with  how 


THE  EPIC. 


23 


grevous  plages  vices  are  punished,  and  howe  frayle, 
unstable  worldly  prosperitie  is  founde,  even  of  those 
whom  fortune  seemeth  most  highly  to  favour.  Felix 
quern  faciunt  aliena pericula  cautum,  "Londini,  8lc."  This 
work,  begun  by  Sackville  on  the  model  of  Boccaccio's 
De  casibus  virorum  illustrium,  resembles  in  plan  the 
"  Tregedis,"  described  above,  which  make  up  the  Monk's 
Tale  in  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  except  that  in  the 
former  the  characters  are  all  English. 

(d)  Lastly,  we  note  the  revival  of  the  supernatural 
in  modern  tales.  This  sort  assumes  a  belief  on  the 
part  of  its  readers  that  the  supernatural  is  possible. 
The  greatest  example  is  Coleridge's  Christabel:  cf.  the 
same  poet's  Ancient  Mariner,  and  Scott's  less  successful 
Lay  of  the  Last  MinstreL 

(2)  Allegory. 

Here  we  still  have  narrative,  but  it  is  no  longer 
based  on  history,  on  actual  events.  Invention  begins 
to  play  a  leading  part.  A  certain  series  of  events  is 
supposed  to  have  taken  place,  and  these  events  generally 
point  out  some  moral,  or  else  tell  one  story  in  terms  of 
another.  Allegory  was  the  favorite  form  of  the  sacred 
Latin  poetry  of  the  early  church.  The  last  poets  of 
profane  Latin  literature  had  a  strong  leaning  toward 
allegory ;  and  it  was  taken  up  with  ardor  by  the  Chris- 
tians as  particularly  suited  to  their  purposes.  Prudentius 
(born  in  Saragossa,  348  a.d.)  was  the  first  Christian 
poet  who  regularly  used  pure  allegory,  and  he  employed 
it  first  in  his  Psychomachia,  which  is  therefore  impor- 
tant as  the  herald  of  a  long  line  of  allegorical  poems. 
Its  example  and  its  effect  upon  mediaeval  literature  can 


POETICS. 


hardly  be  overestimated.  It  belonged,  says  Ebert,  to 
the  "  standard  works,"  was  recommended  for  study,  and 
was  copied  by  many  of  the  church  poets.  This,  as  we 
must  remember,  is  the  first  purely  allegorical  poem,  but 
not  the  first  use  of  allegory  in  poetry.  The  latter  is  a 
point  of  style.  In  profane  poetry,  allegory  soon  became 
very  popular,  notably  among  the  French  poets,  whom 
Chaucer  copied.  It  was  used  quite  apart  from  any 
moral  purposes,  and  is  often  the  vehicle  of  pure  amuse- 
ment. Such  in  part  is  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  — 
though  there  are  many  satirical  touches  in  it, —  a 
French  poem  of  which  we  have  a  translation  attributed 
to  Chaucer.    But  we  must  regard  first  the 

(a)  Didactic  Allegory. 

The  supreme  allegory  of  the  world  is  the  Divina 
Commedia  of  Dante.  It  is  at  the  same  time  a  noble 
epic,  of  which,  as  has  been  said,  Dante  himself  is  the 
hero.  Exactly  what  it  is  intended  to  teach  is  a  question 
on  which  commentators  still  differ.  In  general,  however, 
we  may  call  it  an  allegory  partly  of  political  events,  but 
chiefly  of  Dante's  own  life  and  religious  belief.  The 
poem  is  of  the  greatest  importance  aside  from  its 
splendid  composition  ;  it  sums  up  the  highest  results 
of  the  middle  ages  and  is  filled  with  their  loftiest  and 
purest  spirit.  It  is  often  imitated  by  Chaucer- — as  in 
his  House  of  Fame.  Further,  the  Scotch  school  of 
poets  who  followed  Chaucer  —  Dunbar  especially  — 
showed  great  fondness  for  this  sort  of  allegory,  as  well 
as  for  Visions.  Visions  belong  with  allegory,  and  were 
beloved  by  the  middle  ages.  Gregory  the  Great,  St. 
Boniface  (Winfried),  and  many  other  famous  writers, 


THE  EPIC. 


25 


have  left  "Visions"  among  their  works,  —  wonderful 
dreams,  full  of  help  or  warning  from  the  other  world. 
Among  the  prettiest  specimens  of  this  sort  of  literature 
is  a  poem  called  The  Pearl  (North  of  England,  about 
1370).  A  father  has  lost  his  dear  and  only  daughter, 
but  in  a  dream  he  sees  her  in  heaven  and  is  comforted. 
Probably  by  the  same  author  is  a  poem  founded  on  the 
Arthurian  legend  and  called  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green 
Knight.  This  teaches  in  allegorical  wise  the  lesson 
that  manhood  must  be  purified  by  doubt,  temptation, 
and  sorrow  successfully  combated ;  the  poem  may  be 
compared  with  the  great  German  poem  of  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach,  —  the  Parzival.  The  finest  allegorical 
poem  in  our  own  literature  is,  of  course,  The  Faery 
Queene.  Other  famous  poems  of  the  kind  are,  on  one 
hand,  the  social  allegory \  mourning  the  wrongs  of  certain 
classes  in  society  :  example,  The  Vision  concerning  Piers 
the  Ploughman  (Fourteenth  Century)  ;  or,  on  the 
other,  the  political  allegory,  aiming  at  abuses  in  govern^ 
ment  or  factious  opposition  :  example,  Dryden's  Absa- 
lom and  Achitophely  where  English  contemporary 
characters  are  introduced  under  the  veil  of  a  story  from 
the  Bible.  Saul  is  Oliver  Cromwell,  David  is  King 
Charles  II.,  Absalom  is  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  &c. 
The  same  author  wrote  an  allegory  of  religious  faiths, — 
The  Hind  and  the  Panther.  Dramatic  in  form  (cf.  Chap. 
III.  §  5)  but  full  of  a  fine  allegory  is  Milton's  noble 
Comus. 

(b)  When  the  didactic  allegory  is  bounded  by  very 
narrow  limits,  there  results  the  Fable.  The  Fable  is 
"  the  feigned  history  of  a  particular  case,  in  which  we 
recognize  a  general  truth."    The  events  are  mostly 


26 


POETICS. 


taken  from  the  life  of  beasts,  birds,  etc.  One  of  the 
oldest  English  forms  of  this  sort  of  allegory  is  a  descrip- 
tion of  some  animal  and  his  habits,  with  a  moral  inter- 
pretation. A  collection  of  such  stories  was  called  a 
Bestiary  or  Physiologies.  But  ordinarily,  by  fable  we 
understand  a  short,  pithy  incident  in  animal  life, 
intended  to  convey  a  moral.  Jacob  Grimm,  it  is  true, 
thought  there  had  once  existed  a  regular  beast-epic,  like 
the  human  epic  of  early  days,  and  he  referred  the  later 
fables  to  such  a  source.  There  was,  however,  no  Ger- 
manic beast-epic  at  all.  The  stories  came  from  the 
East,  from  Byzantium,  brought  by  word  of  mouth  into 
Italy,  and  thence  into  the  different  nations  of  Europe. 
The  "  morals  "  were  added  by  the  monks.  Such  collec- 
tions were  very  popular.  Caxton  printed  in  148 1  a 
prose  history  of  Reynard  the  Fox.  Gay's  Fables  in  Eng- 
lish—  and  Prior's  also  —  are  specimens  of  the  light 
vein  :  in  French,  Marie  de  France  among  older  writers, 
and  the  incomparable  La  Fontaine,  are  superior  to  the 
English,  except  that  Chaucer's  imitation  of  Marie  de 
France  (The  Nonne  Prestes  Tale)  far  surpasses  the  orig- 
inal, and  is  one  of  the  liveliest  and  most  charming  tales 
in  our  literature. 

(c)  Miscellaneous. 

There  are  several  kindred  forms  of  allegory,  such  as 
Poetic  Parable,  which  deals  with  human  beings  rather 
than  with  beasts.  This  sort  of  poetry  came  also  from 
the  East.  In  modern  English  we  may  cite  a  familiar 
example  in  Leigh  Hunt's  Abou  ben  Adketn.  The 
Gnomic  Dialogue  is  an  old  form  of  verse.  Two  persons 
tell  in  turn  anecdotes  intended  to  bring  out  some  truth. 


THE  EPIC. 


27 


Such  were  the  famous  dialogues  between  the  soul  and  the 
body,  well  known  to  our  early  literature :  further,  the 
dialogue  between  Solomon  and  Saturn  (!)  and  others  of 
the  same  type.  This  latter  poem  is  related  to  the  popu- 
lar Riddle  Ballads,  in  which  difficult  questions  are  put 
and  answered.  (See  Child,  Eng.  and  Scot.  Pop.  Ball., 
Vol.  1,  p.  13,  2d  ed.) 

(3)  Reflective  Poetry. 

The  desire  to  draw  a  moral  from  the  story  of  events 
was,  we  saw,  practically  unknown  to  the  primitive  epic. 
The  later  forms,  as  they  grew  fond  of  allegory,  allowed 
the  moral  element  to  get  the  upper  hand.  At  last  arose 
a  kind  of  poetry  that  is  all  moral,  and  not  in  any  way 
story,  —  just  the  opposite  extreme  from  the  old  epic. 
What  allows  us  to  class  such  Reflective  Poetry  in  this 
place,  is  the  fact  that  the  poet  bases  his  moralizing  upon 
experience  of  life.  Now  the  middle  ages  had  a  bound- 
less affection  for  moralizing  ;  they  would  have  taken 
the  excellent  Polonius  and  his  maxims  very  seriously 
indeed.  Add  a  touch  of  melancholy,  inherent  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race,  and  we  can  readily  understand  how 
popular  was  the  Poema  Morale  (about  11 70),  a  good 
example  of  the  reflective  poem.  It  is  a  sermon  in  verse  ; 
perhaps  with  as  much  lyric  tone  as  epic,  but  still  well 
freighted  with  good  advice  in  addition  to  the  pathos. 
Much  longer,  epic  in  breadth,  style,  and  plan,  is  Words- 
worth's Excursion  ;  shorter,  his  Lines  written  above  Tin- 
tern  Abbey.  Another  example  is  Cowper's  Task.  More 
directly  appealing  to  the  intellect  is  Pope's  Essay  on 
Criticism  ;  to  the  reason,  the  same  author's  Essay  on 
Man.    With  this  kind  of  reflective  and  philosophical 


28 


POETICS. 


verse  we  touch  the  borders  of  poetry  itself.  Poetry 
purely  didactic  is  not  poetry  ;  for  poetry  must,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  exist  for  its  own  sake,  as  a  work  of  art. 
There  is  brilliant  verse  in  Pope's  Essays  above-men- 
tioned ;  but  when  we  come  to  the  lower  forms  of  so- 
called  didactic  poetry,  we  must  deny  the  substantive. 
Thus  rimed  histories,  catechisms,  mnemonic  verses, 
instructive  literature  generally,  are  not  poetry.  Cf. 
Furnivall's  ed.  of  the  Book  of  Nurture  (E.  E.  T.  Soc. 
1868)  ;  Tusser's  Five  Hundred  Points  of  Good  Hus- 
bandry ;  Armstrong's  Art  of  Preserving  Health,  and  a 
host  of  the  same  kind  :  all  of  these  could  be  much  more 
simply  and  effectively  written  in  prose.  In  fact,  such 
verse  is  a  survival  from  the  days  before  prose  was 
established,  when  poetry  was  maid-of-all-work  to  priest- 
hood and  the  law.  Yet  we  cannot  say  that  all  so-called 
didactic  poetry  is  not  poetry  ;  even  if  we  give  up  Vergil's 
Georgics,  we  have  the  great  poem  of  Lucretius.  In  the 
latter  case,  a  system  of  philosophy  is  taught  in  verse; 
but  there  is  a  vast  remove  from  Armstrong's  prattle 
about  "The  choice  of  aliment,  the  choice  of  air  "  to  the 
"glittering  shafts"  of  Lucretius'  cosmic  forces.  We 
may  say  that  the  De  Rerum  Natura  is  poetical  in  spite 
of  its  subject. 

(4)    Descriptive  Poetry. 

This  may  be  called  a  Nature-epic.  It  carries  us  not 
from  one  event  to  another,  but  from  one  object  to  an- 
other. It  is  generally  combined  with  reflective  poetry  : 
cf.  Goldsmith's  Traveller and  Deserted  Village,  or  Thom- 
son's Seasons.  There  is  much  descriptive  verse  in  the 
Excursion,  the  Task,  and  like  poems  ;  also  in  the  epic 


THE  EPIC. 


29 


itself.  A  fine  bit  of  description  is  the  conclusion  of 
M.  Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustum.  In  shorter  compass, 
it  appears  in  the  famous  epic  Similes  (cf.  p.  109),  and  is 
familiar  to  lyric  and  dramatic  verse.  The  one  condition 
of  descriptive  poetry  is  that  it  shall  have  distinctively 
human  connections  and  human  interest ;  else  it  becomes 
a  catalogue.  As  a  setting  for  the  gem  of  human  inter- 
est, it  is  omnipresent  in  poetry  :  the  ballads  open 
with  a  brief  descriptive  touch  of  the  merry  greenwood  ; 
the  lyric  has  its  moonlight  and  rustling  leaves  ;  the 
drama  is  set  in  actual  scenery.  It  is  this  human  inter- 
est combined  with  vivid  description  that  gives  success 
to  Wordsworth's  best  work  ;  it  is  the  lack  of  human 
interest  that  condemns  from  the  start  the  effort  of  the 
verse-maker,  who  says  (according  to  Carlyle),  "  Come, 
let  us  make  a  description  !  " 

It  is  worth  noting  that  the  gorgeous  pomp  of  descrip- 
tion so  common  in  the  Elizabethan  drama,  and  to  mod- 
ern taste  often  so  superfluous,  is  due  to  the  miserable 
scenery  of  the  early  stage.  To  beguile  the  imagination 
away  from  a  bare  space  with  a  pasteboard  tree  and  a 
label  "  Forest  of  Arden,"-the  playwright  had  recourse 
to  elaborate  and  highly  colored  description.  Famous 
for  this  characteristic  is  the  description  of  Dover  Cliff 
in  Lear. 

(5)  Pastoral  Poetry. 
An  odd  mixture  of  narrative  and  descriptive,  with  a 
dramatic  element  added,  is  the  so-called  Pastoral  Poetry. 
It  was  once  believed  that  poetry  originated  among  shep- 
herds ;  and  in  a  corrupt  or  artificial  age  there  is  a  reac- 
tion towards  this  primitive  verse.  Dwellers  in  crowded 
cities  imagine  themselves  "silly"  shepherds  piping  by 


30 


POETICS. 


the  brookside  among  their  sheep.  But  simplicity  is,  as  a 
rule,  the  very  last  quality  of  this  kind  of  poetry.  Under 
such  circumstances  it  is  almost  impossible  to  write  natu- 
rally ;  there  is  too  wide  a  gap  between  the  singer  and 
his  song.  The  incongruity  becomes  evident  when  mod- 
ern and  ancient  expressions  are  brought  together,  as  in 
Pope's  lines  :  — 

"  Inspire  me,  Phoebus,  in  my  Delia's  praise, 
With  Waller's  strains  or  Granville's  moving  lays ; 
A  milk-white  bull  shall  at  your  altars  stand 
That  threats  a  fight  and  spurns  the  rising  sand." 

But  there  is  some  very  successful  pastoral  poetry  ; 
such  is  that  of  Theocritus  and  Vergil  for  the  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  of  Spenser  and  William  Browne  for  the 
English.  This  kind  of  poetry  also  had  its  origin  in 
worship  of  the  gods,  and  began  in  Greece  with  the  wor- 
ship of  Pan  and  the  Dorian  Artemis.  The  Spanish 
pastoral  poem  Diana,  by  George  de  Monte  Mayor,  had 
considerable  influence  on  Sidney  in  his  Arcadia.  Our 
earliest  pastoral  is  the  Robyne  and  Makyne  of  Robert 
Henrysoun,  a  Scotch  poet  of  the  Fifteenth  Century. 

Not  so  limited  in  range,  though  of  the  same  character 
as  the  pastoral,  is  the  Idyll.  The  Idyll  must  be  simple, 
calm,  more  concerned  with  situation  than  with  action. 
As  a  good  example  of  this  sort  of  poetry  we  should  not 
instance  the  obvious  Idylls  of  the  King  by  Tennyson, 
which  are  more  full  of  action  than  the  title  warrants, 
and  belong  to  the  legendary  epic  ;  but  we  should  in- 
stance The  Cotter  s  Saturday  Night  of  Burns  as  an 
excellent  short  idyll.  In  German,  Hermann  and  Doro- 
thea (Goethe)  is  called  an  idyll ;  the  quietness  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  poem,  its   exquisite   grace,  are  more 


THE  EPIC. 


3* 


prominent  than  the  action,  which  is  very  simple.  It 
was  the  only  one  of  his  poems,  Goethe  told  Eckermann, 
which  pleased  the  author  in  his  old  age.  —  For  the 
dramatic  Idyll,  see  Chap.  III.  §  u. 

(6)  Satiric  and  Amusing  Poetry. 

The  Latin  word  Satura  (lanx  satura,  a  plate  heaped 
with  various  viands)  meant  a  hodge-podge,  or  mixture 
of  all  things.  A  song  was  sung,  made  up  of  shifting 
subjects  and  metres,  —  a  medley.  At  last  it  came  to  be 
a  song  ridiculing  persons  or  events,  and  gradually  gained 
dignity,  till  it  ceased  to  mock  its  object,  and  began  to 
reprove.  The  Romans  were  the  greatest  masters  of  this 
style  of  poetry,  and  Juvenal  was  its  chief  poet.  Such 
satiric  poetry  as  his,  different  from  the  milder  satire  of 
Horace,  lashes  public  and  private  folly  with  a  whip  of 
indignant  scorn.  It  does  not  aim  to  amuse ;  it  is 
really  didactic.  Epic  poetry  was,  we  saw,  objective ; 
it  mirrored  the  world,  good  or  bad,  without  moral  com- 
ment. Satiric  poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  judges  events, 
and  above  all  loves  to  belittle  their  importance,  to  show 
the  reverse  side  of  things.  The  epic  loved  to  magnify 
its  hero,  to  make  him  the  special  care  of  the  gods ;  the 
satire  delights  to  show  him  subject  to  petty  ills  and 
conquered  by  some  ignominious  fate.  Thus  Juvenal 
cries  to  Hannibal,  "  Go  now,  thou  madman,  scour  the 
rugged  Alps  —  that  thou  mayest  please  children  (hear- 
ing his  story)  and  be  a  good  subject  for  compositions  !  " 
In  order  to  make  the  satire  keener,  although  the  mixed 
and  shifting  treatment  is  retained,  the  poet  adopts  the 
form  and  manner  of  the  epic  :  in  Latin,  the  hexameter ; 
in  English,  the  heroic  couplet.    In  the  latter  language 


32 


POETICS. 


we  have  vigorous  satire  from  Marston,  Donne,  Bishop 
Hall,  and  many  others.  Butler's  Hudibras  is  another 
kind  of  satire,  in  mock  epic  style.  Dr.  Johnson's  two 
imitations  of  Juvenal  are  well  known.  —  Dryden's  Mac 
Flecknoe  is  a  strong  personal  satire.  There  is  much 
light  and  incidental  satire  in  Chaucer  ;  and  in  the  old 
English  poem  called  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale 
(middle  of  the  Thirteenth  Century)  the  satire  is  softened 
to  a  delightful  humor.  This  poem  is  in  dialogue  form, 
and  may  be  compared  with  The  Twa  Dogs  of  Burns. 

Amusing  Epic  Poetry. 

Parody.  —  Here  we  look  through  a  reversed  spy-glass. 
The  grand  epic  style  is  applied  to  petty  subjects,  and 
exact  epic  order  and  grouping  are  retained.  One  of  the 
best  mock-epics  or  parodies  ever  written  is  Pope's  Rape 
of  the  Lock.  Note  especially  the  machinery  of  the 
sylphs,  their  punishment  for  neglect  of  duty  (cf.  the 
punishments  in  the  Odyssey,  —  of  Tantalus,  Sisyphus, 
etc.)  ;  and  the  game  of  cards,  described  as  the  epic  de- 
scribes a  battle. 

A  Travesty,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  noble  subject 
treated  in  a  ridiculous,  ignoble  way,  —  the  opposite  of  the 
parody.  Such  are  the  Comic  Histories.  —  But  there  is 
another  sort  of  mock-poem  which  goes  under  the  name 
parody,  though  really  a  travesty.  It  consists  in  copying 
a  serious  poem  with  comic  effect,  using,  however,  as  far 
as  may  be,  the  same  words,  phrases,  metre,  and  general 
plan.  The  best  of  this  class  is  M.  Prior's  English  Ballad 
on  the  Taking  of  Namur  by  the  King  of  Great  Britain, 
in  which  he  parodies  admirably  Boileau's  pompous  ode, 
Sur  le  Prise  de  Namur  par  les  Armes  du  Roi,  U  Annee 


THE  EPIC. 


33 


1692.  Prior  wrote  on  its  recapture  by  the  English  in 
1695. 

Humorous  Epic.  Not  a  parody  or  even  a  satire,  but 
an  easy  poem,  dealing  with  light  events  so  as  to  form  a 
connected  story,  and  presenting  generally  some  "  phil- 
osophy of  life,"  is  the  Humorous  Epic.  Byron's  Don 
Juan  is  an  example.  With  a  far  more  serious  undercur- 
rent, but  still  outwardly  humorous,  is  dough's  delight- 
ful Bothie  of  Tober  na  Vuolich.  Byron  and  Clough  had 
very  different  points  of  view,  but  the  manner  of  the 
poems  is  in  some  respects  the  same. 

Thence  we  descend  to  merry  tales  in  rime,  light 
poems  written  purely  for  entertainment.  Such  in 
France  were  La  Fontaine's  Contes  et  Nouvelles,  many  of 
which  were  based  on  Boccaccio's  (prose)  Decameron  ; 
England  has  Chaucer's  lighter  tales  ;  and  we  may  add 
for  later  literature  (amid  a  host  of  '  comic  '  or  i  humor- 
ous '  poems)  Burns'  Tarn  0  Shanter. 

Lastly,  the  Riddle.  The  Riddle  is  a  short  epic  with 
the  hero's  name  suppressed.  Often  the  form  of  the 
poetry  has  great  merit ;  e.g.,  for  older  English,  Cyne- 
wulf's  Riddles  ;  for  later,  Praed's  so-called  Charades. 

(7)  The  Grand  Epic  of  Modern  Times. 

By  "  modern  "  is  meant  the  period  since  poetical  com- 
position has  taken  the  place  of  poetical  growth,  —  since 
the  epoch  of  the  Odyssey  or  of  Beowulf.  The  time  is 
relative,  and  differs  with  different  races.  The  splendid 
possibilities  of  the  pure  epic  have  not  been  disregarded 
by  great  poets,  and  in  many  lands  there  has  arisen  a 
later  or  imitated  epic  modelled  on  the  early  national 
epic.     Vergil's  Aineid  is  a  not  unworthy  successor 


34 


POETICS. 


(inferior  in  many  respects,  it  is  true,  and  necessarily 
lacking  the  freshness  and  spontaneity  of  the  original)  of 
the  Iliad.  Ariosto  and  Tasso  applied  the  manner  and 
form  of  the  grand  epic  to  medieval  subjects.  For 
English,  Paradise  Lost,  with  its  intense  energy  and 
lofty  tone,  ranks  among  the  few  great  epic  poems  of  the 
world.  A  bold  venture  on  classic  ground  was  the  unfin- 
ished Hyperion  of  Keats,  —  an  epic  not  far  behind 
Milton's  in  that  "high  seriousness  "  which  has  been 
advanced  of  late  as  prime  quality  in  a  great  poem. 
Further,  there  are  countless  English  translations  of  the 
great  epics,  Pope's  and  Chapman's  Homers  being  the 
most  conspicuous.  One  great  test  of  the  old  epic  was 
its  absolute  belief  in  itself ;  there  was  no  feigning. 
This  sincerity  is  impossible  in  imitated  epic ;  and  what 
makes  Dante's  great  poem  almost  worthy  to  rank  with 
the  old  epic,  is  the  intense  belief  of  Dante  in  his  own 
work.  It  so  catches  the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages,  is  so 
intense  in  its  sincerity,  that  in  this  respect  it  may  well 
be  called  Homeric. 

§  4.     THE  BALLAD  OR  FOLK-SONG. 

We  see  that  from  the  original  epic  sprang  many  kinds 
of  poetry  that  all  had  the  common  trait  of  telling  some- 
thing known,  or  supposed,  or  feigned  to  have  happened. 
Other  characteristics  were  simplicity,  absence  of  per- 
sonal property  (authorship),  truthful  mirroring  of  nature, 
lack  of  a  moral  or  reflective  element.  These  qualities 
vanished  in  later  epic  poetry.  But  as  in  the  natural 
world,  when  we  have  ploughed  under  some  old  wheat- 
field  and  planted  a  new  crop  of  other  grain,  there  will 
be  crevices  and  corners  where  odd  patches  of  wheat  will 


THE  EPIC. 


35 


spring  up  and  flourish  by  the  side  of  the  regular  crop, 
so  it  is  in  the  world  of  literature.  The  old  wheat-field 
of  epic  poetry,  long  after  it  was  ploughed  under,  kept 
sending  up  scattered  blades,  which  we  call  ballads  or 
folksongs.  Except  in  authority,  national  importance, 
and  kindred  qualities,  we  may  use  the  same  definition 
for  the  (narrative)  folk-song  that  we  use  for  the  early 
epic.  Both  names,  ballad  and  folk-song,  are  suggestive  : 
ballad  means  a  song  to  which  one  may  dance  ;  folk-song 
is  something  made  by  the  whole  people,  not  by  indi- 
vidual poets.  Wright,  in  speaking  of  certain  songs  of 
the  Fifteenth  Century  (Percy  Soc,  vol.  xxiii.),  says  : 
"The  great  variation  in  the  different  copies  of  the  same 
song  shews  that  they  were  taken  down  from  oral  recita- 
tion, and  had  been  often  preserved  by  memory  among 
minstrels  who  were  not  unskilful  at  composing,  and  who 
were  ...  in  the  habit  ...  of  making  up  new  songs 
by  stringing  together  phrases  and  lines,  and  even  whole 
stanzas,  from  the  different  compositions  that  were  im- 
printed on  their  memories."  The  importance  and 
influence  and,  we  may  add,  the  worth,  of  the  folk-song 
are  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  spread  of  printed  books.  As 
the  minstrel's  welcome  vanished  from  the  baron's  hall, 
and  his  audience  degenerated  to  peasants  and  serving- 
people,  we  note  a  corresponding  degeneration  from  the 
highest  poetical  merit  to  the  level  of  modern  street- 
songs.1  It  easily  follows  that  much  of  the  best  folk- 
poetry  must  be  lost,  —  not  because,  like  the  heroes 
before  Agamemnon,  it  lacked  the  pious  poet  to  sing  it, 
but  rather  the  'chiel '  to  take  notes  and  '  print  it/ 

1  .  .  .  "the  usual  marks  of  degeneracy  [of  ballads],  a  dropping  or  ob- 
scuring of  marvellous  and  romantic  incidents,  and  a  declension  in  the  rank 
and  style  of  the  characters."    Child,  Ballads,  2d  Ed.,  vol.  I.,  p.  48. 


36 


POETICS. 


The  folk-song  is  a  complete  satisfaction  of  the 
demand  for  "  more  matter  and  less  art."  It  is  very  art- 
less and  full  of  matter.  The  passions  jostle  each  other 
terribly,  as  they  escape  from  the  singer's  lips  :  — 

"  I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma1, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me.1' 

The  historical  or  narrative  ballad  is  what  we  now  con- 
sider. Like  the  early  epic,  it  refers  often  to  subjects 
made  up  partly  of  legend  and  partly  of  myth,  —  such  as 
the  Robin  Hood  ballads.  But  unlike  the  epic,  the  folk- 
song is  often  made  immediately  after  a  great  battle  or 
similar  event.  In  the  Battle  of  Maldon,  or  Byrhtnottis 
Death,  a  stirring  ballad  of  the  later  Anglo-Saxon  period, 
the  song  follows  the  event  so  closely  that  the  singer 
has  not  had  time  even  to  find  out  the  name  of  the 
enemy's  leaders.  It  is  full  of  epic  phrases  and  figures, 
and  is  thoroughly  in  the  objective  manner.  The  event 
seems  to  sing  itself. 

Professor  Child  has  grouped  our  national  ballads  as 
follows  :  I.  Romances  of  Chivalry  and  legends  of  the 
popular  history  of  England.  II.  Ballads  involving  vari- 
ous superstitions  ;  as  of  Fairies,  Elves,  Magic,  and 
Ghosts.  III.  Tragic  love-ballads.  IV.  Other  tragic 
ballads.  V.  Love-ballads  not  tragic.  In  all  these,  and 
in  the  miscellaneous  ballads,  the  tests  we  mentioned 
above  will  hold  good  for  the  genuine  folk-song.  It 
must  be  objective,  filled  with  its  story,  adding  no  senti- 
ment or  moral,  and  breathing  a  healthy,  popular  spirit. 
Antique  spelling  and  archaic  phrases  do  not  make  a 
ballad.  Many  ballads,  too,  are  not  of  native  origin,  but, 
blown  from  the  East  over  Europe,  dropped  seed  in 


THE  EPIC. 


37 


many  countries.  Hence  a  number  of  similar  ballads 
(cf  the  extraordinary  spread  of  a  ballad  known  in  Eng- 
lish as  Lady  Isabel  and  the  Elf-Knight)  in  the  different 
literatures  of  Europe.  Again,  like  fairy  and  nursery 
tales,  like  superstitions  and  folk-lore  of  every  sort,  many 
strikingly  similar  European  ballads  point  to  a  common 
mythical  source.  But  amid  the  diversity  of  subject  and 
origin,  the  general  spirit  of  the  ballad  or  folk-song 
remains  one  and  the  same.  The  genuine  ballad  is  one 
thing,  and  the  imitated  ballad  —  even  such  an  imita- 
tion as  Chatterton  could  make  —  is  quite  another.  To 
understand  this  clearly,  read  a  good  specimen  of  each 
kind ;  compare,  say,  Thomas  of  Ercildoune  with  Keats' 
La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci,  a  Ballad.  The  latter  is 
wrought  by  the  fancy  of  a  poet  under  certain  influ- 
ences of  the  past ;  the  other,  written  in  the  Fifteenth 
Century,  but  older  in  composition  than  that,  is  the  work 
of  a  single  poet  or  minstrel  only  in  the  sense  that  this 
minstrel  combined  materials  which  had  been  handed 
down  from  remotest  times.  The  study  of  these  mate- 
rials leads  in  all  directions,  —  to  the  prophecies  of  Mer- 
lin, the  story  of  the  Tannhauser,  and  so  forth ;  the 
floating  waifs  of  myth  and  superstition  had  gathered 
about  the  legendary  (or  historical)  form  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  and  under  one  minstrel's  hands  take  this 
definite  shape  as  ballad.  It  is  the  old  epic  process  in 
miniature.  Even  in  the  style  we  may  distinguish  the 
two.  "  I  am  glad  as  grasse  wold  be  of  raine  "  is  the  bal- 
lad style  {Marriage  of  Sir  Gawayne)  ;  "  With  kisses 
glad  as  birds  are  that  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  "  is  the 
imitated  ballad  style  (Swinburne,  A  Match). 

The  ballad,  with  the  spread  of  letters,  degenerates 


38 


POETICS. 


into  the  street-song  or  broadside.  It  bewails  abuses  in 
government,  the  wrongs  of  the  poor,  satirizes  the  follies 
of  the  day,  and  the  like.  For  a  collection  of  such,  see 
(among  others)  the  Roxburghe  Ballads. 

§  5.    LATER  BALLADS. 

As  with  the  epic,  so  with  the  folk-song ;  poets  soon 
saw  how  much  could  be  done  with  the  form  and  manner 
of  the  ballad.  Prudentius  wrote  a  sort  of  ballad  on  the 
death  of  the  martyr  Laurentius  ;  it  was  in  the  metre  of 
the  Latin  folk-song,  and  is  called  by  Ebert  the  first  exam- 
ple of  a  modern  ballad.  He  compares  the  style,  and  even 
the  metre,  to  the  English  popular  ballads  of  later  time. 
Of  course,  Prudentius  purposely  adopts  this  ballad  style : 
"Hear,"  he  cries  to  the  martyr,  "a  rustic  poet!'  The 
nearer  such  conscious  ballads  approach  the  tone  of  gen- 
uine folk-song,  the  better  they  are.  The  old  Anglo- 
Saxon  ballad,  e.g.,  Byrhtnotti s  Death,  may  be  compared 
with  Drayton's  stirring  Battle  of  Agincourt.  The  list 
of  these  imitated  or  conscious  ballads,  works  of  individ- 
ual poets,  would  be  endless.  Any  great  occasion  or 
situation  can  inspire  such  songs.  Of  martial  ballads, 
we  instance  Campbell's  Battle  of  the  Baltic ;  of  love- 
ballads  (narrative,  of  course),  Mated  Mutter  or  Lord 
Ullins  Daughter ;  gay  ballads,  like  Burns'  Duncan  Grey 
or  John  Barleycorn;  longer  historical  ballads,  like 
Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  in  which  there  is 
more  tinsel  than  true  metal ;  the  "  dramatic,"  spirited 
ballad,  such  as  Robert  Browning  delights  in  ;  and  a 
host  of  others.  Often  a  story  is  told  in  a  story ;  e.g., 
Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner.     Comic  ballads  are  of  two 


THE  EPIC. 


39 


kinds.  In  one,  the  fun  springs  from  the  situation  or 
event ;  e.g.,  John  Gilpin  s  famous  ride.  In  the  other, 
the  mind  must  work  out  the  humor  of  the  poem  ;  there 
is  nothing  laughable  in  the  event  itself.  Of  this  kind 
is  Goldsmith's  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog.  To 
classify  the  great  number  of  occasional  ballads  would 
be  useless.  They  cover  every  conceivable  situation. 
But  we  must  note  the  gradual  shading  away  of  narra- 
tive ballads  into  ballads  that  are  either  lyric  or  dra- 
matic. The  tragic  ballad  is  in  its  purity  objective, — 
as  The  Children  in  the  Wood,  or  Sir  Patrick  Spens :  when 
it  begins  to  let  emotion  outweigh  narrative,  then  we 
have  a  lyric  ballad.  When  the  persons  of  the  story 
speak  for  themselves,  we  have  a  dramatic  ballad.  Nat- 
urally, the  lyric  and  epic  are  often  closely  blended. 
Thus  a  deep  emotion  —  as  of  grief  —  finds  expression 
by  dwelling  on  certain  events.  The  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore  is  strongly  objective  ;  mingled  with  outbursts  of 
feeling  is  the  narrative  in  David's  beautiful  lament  over 
Jonathan  (2  Sam.  1.  17  ff.).  This  is  closely  allied  to  the 
lyric  Threnody ;  but  there  is  a  tendency  to  dwell  on 
events.  There  is  much  narrative  in  Milton's  Lycidasy 
and  at  first  we  might  call  it  chiefly  epic  in  its  lament ; 
—  what  with  the  pastoral  allegory,  and  the  appeal  to 
the  nymphs,  one  is  almost  ready  to  add  "artificial "  ; 
but  a  deeper  study  shows  us  that  the  whole  poem  is  a 
splendid  burst  of  grief  and  indignation,  —  Milton's  first 
strong  cry  against  the  evil  of  the  times,  against  a  degen- 
erate priesthood.  King's  death  is  only  the  occasion  for 
uttering  those  feelings.  Lycidas  is  in  every  sense  of 
the  word  a  lyric. 


4o 


POETICS. 


CHAPTER  II.  — LYRIC  POETRY. 

The  epic  belongs  to  the  outward  world.  Its  business 
is  to  tell  a  story.  It  sings  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  or 
the  wanderings  of  Odysseus,  or  the  feats  of  Beowulf; 
it  reports  simply  what  has  happened.  Quite  the  con- 
trary with  the  lyric  :  it  is  subjective,  proceeds  from  one 
individual ;  has  to  do,  not  with  events,  but  with  feel- 
ings. It  belongs  to  a  later  stage  of  culture  than  the 
epic.  "The  lyric  poets,"  says  Paul  Albert,1  "are  the 
interpreters  of  the  new  society.  The  field  that  is 
opened  to  them  is  vast,  boundless,  as  the  needs,  desires, 
and  energies  of  the  people.."  Children,  and  the  early 
world,  content  themselves  with  things  about  them, — 
events,  objects  of  nature.  Growing  man  becomes  con- 
scious of  a  world  within  him,  of  desires,  hopes,  fears. 
To  express  these  is  the  business  of  lyric  poetry.  Con- 
sequently the  test  of  a  good  lyric  poem  is  sincerity.  To 
show  how  important  this  is,  read  an  artificial  lyric  like 
Rogers'  Wish  ("Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill"),  and 
compare  it  with  the  exquisite  Happy  Heart  of  Dekker. 
[Both  lyrics  are  in  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury.]  We 
ask,  therefore,  of  the  lyric  that  it  be  a  real  expression, 
an  adequate,  harmonious,  and  imaginative  expression,  of 
real  feeling. 

Hegel  gives  a  good  illustration  of  this  subjective 
nature  of  the  lyric  as  compared  with  the  epic  objectivity. 
Homer,  he  says,  is  so  shut  out,  as  individual,  from  his 

1  La  Poesie,  Paris,  1870.  He  is  speaking  especially  of  Greece,  from 
760-400  B.C. 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


41 


great  epics,  that  his  very  existence  is  questioned ; 
though  his  heroes  are  safely  immortal.  The  heroes  of 
Pindar,  on  the  other  hand,  are  empty  names  ;  while  he 
who  sang  them  is  the  immortal  poet.  Lyric  poetry 
tends  to  exalt  the  poet  himself,  to  make  his  personality 
far  more  to  us  than  the  events  which  occasion  his  poem. 
Whether  it  be  Horace  or  Robin  Herrick  who  is  singing, 
it  is  the  poet  who  interests  us,  not  the  Maecenas  or 
Corinna  to  whom  he  sings,  nor  yet  the  villa  or  the  May- 
day which  he  takes  as  subject. 

Again,  the  epic  moves  slowly,  majestically ;  it  is  a 
broad  and  quiet  current.  The  lyric  is  concentrated.  It 
is  like  a  well-spring  bursting  out  suddenly  at  one's  feet. 

So,  too,  epic  and  lyric  differ  in  form.  The  epic  has  a 
traditional,  uniform  metre,  such  as  the  hexameter  or  the 
heroic  couplet  or  blank  verse.  The  lyric  has  its  choice 
of  a  hundred  forms,  or  may  go  further,  and  invent  a  new 
form.  The  epic  was  chanted  ;  the  lyric  was  sung.  The 
old  minstrel  had  his  harp  ;  the  German  Minnesanger 
accompanied  their  songs  on  the  violin  (not  the  harp,  as 
often  stated).  This  suggests  the  origin  of  the  word 
lyric,  —  something  sung  to  the  lyre.  Thus  we  have 
three  elements  :  instrument,  voice,  words.  In  time  a 
separation  was  brought  about,  so  that  now  (1)  the  music 
is  everything,  and  the  words  either  altogether  discarded 
(compare  the  Lieder  ofate  Worte)  or  else  very  subordinate 
and  often  foolish,  as  in  opera  ;  or  (2)  the  words  are  the 
chief  consideration  and  the  music  a  possibility.  When 
to  a  lyric  of  the  second  class  (such  as  Goethe's  charm- 
ing songs),  the  music  of  a  great  master  is  added,  we 
have  revived  the  original  conception  of  a  lyric. 

The  Abbe  Batteux  says  that  enthusiasm  is  the  basis 


42 


POETICS. 


of  lyric  poetry,  and  he  gives  three  divisions  :  the  sub- 
lime,  the  sweet,  and  what  lies  between  the  two.  But 
this  is  nothing  more  than  what  was  said  above, — the 
lyric  comes  from  and  appeals  to  the  feelings.  It  stirs 
our  emotions  and  purifies  them,  —  a  process  to  which 
in  the  case  of  the  drama  Aristotle  applied  the  term 
Katharsis,  a  purifying  or  purging.  Lyric  poetry  must 
therefore  be  divided  according  to  the  nature  of  the  feel- 
ings aroused.  But  these  same  emotions  may  be  (a) 
simple,  and  the  poem  may  so  become  a  natural  expres- 
sion of  immediate  feeling  ;  or  they  may  be  (b)  enthusi- 
astic, whence  arises  the  dithyramb  or  ode ;  or  lastly, 
they  may  be  (c)  reflective,  where  the  intellectual  min- 
gles with  the  purely  emotional. 

Many  writers  have  proposed  new  classifications  of 
lyric  poetry  ;  thus  Carriere  divides  into  lyrics  of  feeling, 
of  contemplation  (or  the  symbolic,  i.e.,  the  poet  traces 
his  own  sensations  as  manifested  in  the  external  world), 
and  of  reflection.  Vischer  has  still  another  division ; 
but  the  one  given  above  seems  the  simplest,  and  needs 
no  great  array  of  philosophic  terms  to  explain  it. 

§  I.    SACRED  LYRIC. 

The  lyric  here  voices  religious  emotion.  When  this 
occurs  (a)  simply,  when  the  feelings  pour  out  unrestrain- 
edly, we  have  such  a  hymn  as  Wesley's  beautiful  Jesus, 
Lover  of  my  Soul.  The  world-old  hymns  on  which 
mythology  and  religion  were  based  were  more  epic  than 
lyric.  Otherwise  with  the  purely  emotional  character 
of  the  Psalms  of  David  :  cf.  XLIL,  As  the  hart  panteth 
after  the  zvater-brooks.  To  these,  as  to  Wesley's  hymn, 
may  be  applied  a  phrase  which  De  Quincey  quotes  from 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


43 


the  Greek,  "Flight  of  the  solitary  to  the  Solitary."  The 
spirit  of  Christianity  is  an  individual  spirit  ;  it  appeals 
to  the  single  human  soul.  Hence  many  beautiful 
hymns  of  the  church. 

(b)  The  second  class  of  lyrics,  the  Ode,  is  where 
"  any  strain  of  enthusiastic  and  exalted  lyrical  verse 
[is]  directed  to  a  fixed  purpose,  and  [deals]  progres- 
sively with  one  dignified  theme."  (E.  W.  Gosse.)  — 
For  purely  sacred  lyric,  an  instance  of  this  kind  would 
be  the  Ode,  "  God,"  by  Derzhavin,  the  Russian  ; 
translated  by  Bowring.  With  slight  epic  leaning  is 
Pope's  Messiah. 

(c)  The  reflective  sacred  lyric  is  well  represented  in 
the  poems  of  George  Herbert,  where,  however,  the 
passion  for  '  conceits '  often  clogs  the  lyric  flight. 
Whittier's  Eternal  Goodness  may  be  mentioned  among 
modern  poems  of  this  class. 

§  2.    PATRIOTIC  LYRIC. 

National  hymns  flourish  in  every  country,  and  the 
feeling  of  love  for  one's  native  land  has  found  frequent 
and  various  expression  in  the  lyric.  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi 
Wallace  bled"  (Burns);  The  Isles  of  Greece  (Byron); 
The  Marseillaise;  the  exquisite  little  "  Ode,"  How 
Sleep  the  Brave  (Collins)  ;  Give  a  Rouse  (R.  Browning, 
'  Cavalier  Tunes ')  ;  Ye  Mariners  of  England  (Camp- 
bell) —  are  all  examples  of  this  sort.  Then  there  is  the 
fine  Ode  by  Sir  W.  Jones,  What  Constitutes  a  State  ? 
the  sonnet  To  Milton  by  Wordsworth  ;  Coleridge's  Ode 
to  France ;  and  the  masterpiece  of  lofty  reflection  joined 
with  intense  feeling  flashing  out  in  the  "  higher  mood  " 
of  Lycidas.    In  patriotic  lyrics  are,  of  course,  included 


44 


POETICS. 


lyrics  of  war.  Several  have  been  mentioned.  Poems 
like  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib  (Byron)  and  The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  (Tennyson),  though  narra- 
tive in  form,  are  really  lyric  ;  the  feeling  is  the  main 
thing,  not  the  story.  They  are  subjective,  not  objec- 
tive. 

Lastly,  we  must  not  forget  that  in  the  best  dramatic 
poetry  there  are  bursts  of  feeling  so  strong  as  to  make 
them  lyrical,  despite  the  chains  of  blank-verse  and  the 
dependence  on  the  rest  of  the  play.  Such  a  patriotic 
outburst  is  the  part  about  England  in  the  dying  speech 
of  old  John  of  Gaunt  {Rich.  II,  ii.  i),  or  the  famous 
exhortation  of  King  Harry  (Hen.  V.,  in.  i). 

§  3.  LOVE-LYRICS. 

These  are  the  lyrics  par  excellence.  Our  literature  is 
wonderfully  rich  in  this  respect.  We  think  of  such  a 
simple  love-lyric  as  Take,  O  take  those  lips  away  (in 
Measure  for  Measure),  or  O  my  love  s  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
or  Whistle  and  T 11  come  to  you,  my  lad  (Burns)  ;  of 
such  an  ode  as  Spenser's  Epithalamion  ;  of  such  a  fine 
'  reflective  '  love-lyric  as  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
(Wordsworth),  and,  though  we  have  combined  most 
widely  sundered  points  of  view,  we  have  by  no  means 
exhausted  the  "many  moodes  and  pangs  of  lovers  .  .  . 
the  poure  fools  sometimes  praying,  beseeching,  some- 
time honouring,  auancing,  praising :  an  other  while 
railing,  reviling,  and  cursing ;  then  sorrowing,  weeping, 
lamenting:  in  the  ende  laughing,  rejoysing  and  solac- 
ing the  beloued  againe,  with  a  thousand  delicate  de- 
uises,  odes,  songs,  elegies,  ballads,  sonets  and  other 
ditties,  moouing  one  way  and  another  to  great  compas- 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


45 


sion."  (Geo.  Puttenham,  Arte  of  Eng.  Poesie,  ch.  22.) 
Or  we  may  sum  up  the  two  prevailing  moods  —  hope 
and  despair  —  of  love-songs,  in  Chaucer's  line  :  — 

"  Now  up,  now  doun,  as  bokets  in  a  welle." 

The  troubadours  (or  trouveres,  i.e.,  finders,  inventors 
of  poetry)  flourished  in  France,  and  the  Minnesdnger 
(Minne  =  love)  in  Germany,  some  six  centuries  ago,  and 
made  a  golden  age  of  love-lyrics.  To  compose  a  love- 
song,  and  then  sing  it  effectively,  was  every  noble's  ac- 
complishment. Richard  the  Lion-heart  is  credited  with 
a  French  love-lay.  Then,  too,  the  gay  "clerkes,"  the 
wandering  scholars  of  the  middle  ages,  sang  love-songs 
enough,  from  the  reckless  tavern-catch  (such  as  may 
be  found  in  modern  collections  of  the  medieval  Latin 
songs)  up  to  the  passionate  outburst  of  love  to  the  holy 
and  gracious  Virgin  of  heaven.  [See  Kennedy's  trans 
lation  of  Ten  Brink's  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  208.]  Anothei 
great  cycle  of  love-lyrics  is  found  in  the  time  of  Eliza- 
beth ;  e.g.,  Marlowe's  "  smooth  song/'  Come  live  with 
me  and  be  my  love.  Popular  collections  were  printed  , 
e.g.,  ''England's  Helicon,"  Tottel's  "Miscellany,"  &c. — 
The  Madrigal  was  originally  a  shepherd's  song,  but  came 
to  mean  a  love-ditty;  "airs  and  madrigals,"  says  Mil 
ton,  "  which  whisper  softness  in  chambers."  It  musl 
be  short  and  fanciful  ;  e.g.,  Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 
(see  above),  or  Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred  (Merch.  of 
Ven.).  Reckless  or  amusing  love-lyrics  are  plentiful : 
Suckling's  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  f  and  With- 
er's  Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair  are  good  examples.  An 
admirable  love-lyric,  swaying  between  jest  and  earnest, 
is  Drayton's  sonnet,  Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  uf 


46 


POETICS. 


kiss  and  part ;  the  sudden  turn  of  the  last  two  lines  is 
of  the  highest  merit.  Grave  entirely,  and  gracious,  is 
Lovelace's  7V//  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde.  With 
Herrick,  Carew  and  the  rest,  we  come  to  Vers  de 
Society  which  will  be  treated  below.  It  is  folly  to  at- 
tempt any  minute  classification  of  love-lyrics  :  each 
good  one  should  make  a  class  for  itself.  We  must, 
however,  note  the  wonderful  revival  of  the  Elizabethan 
lyric  by  William  Blake ;  e.g.,  in  his  song  My  Silks  and 
Fine  Array.  The  tragic  side  of  love  represented  in  this 
song  is  more  appropriately  treated  under  lyrics  of  grief, 
though  we  may  here  mention  the  exquisite  ballad  Fair 
Helen,  Wordsworth's  Lucy  (that  beginning  She  dwelt 
among  the  tmtrodden  ways,  and  also  A  slumber  did  my 
spirit  seal) ;  while  there  is  what  Mr.  Arnold  calls  a 
"piercing"  pathos  in  the  stanza  of  Auld  Lang  Syne :  — 

"  We  twa  hae  paidl'd  i'  the  burn 
From  morning  sun  till  dine  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne." 

§  4.    LYRIC  OF  NATURE. 

The  good  poet  ought  to  feel  with  Chaucer :  — - 

"  When  that  the  monethe  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  I  here  the  foules  synge, 
And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  sprynge, 
Fairewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocioun !  *' 

Out  of  very  early  times  comes  down  to  us  a  fresh  lit- 
tle "  Cuckoo-Song,"  a  refrain  to  welcome  Summer;  it 
is  an  excellent  example  of  the  simple  nature-lyric  :  — 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


47 


"  Sumer  is  i-cumen 1  in, 
Lhude  2  sing  cuccu  ! 
Groweth  sed 
And  bloweth  med,3 
And  springth  the  wde  4  nu 5 ; 
Sing  cuccu." 

Simple,  too,  is  the  song  in  Cymbeline,  "Hark,  hark, 
the  lark,y  and  the  song  in  R.  Browning's  Pippa  Passes, 
"  The  Years  at  the  Spring''  A  little  reflection  (nature 
is  ever  suggestive)  is  mingled  with  Shelley's  Cloud, 
Blake's  Tiger,  Wordsworth's  Cuckoo  and  Daffodils, 
Keats'  Autumn,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Now  the 
lusty  Spring  is  seen  and  Shephei'ds  all  and  maidens  fair, 
and  Swinburne's  fine  chorus  When  the  hounds  of  spring, 
in  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon." 

Of  the  odes,  we  instance  Collins'  beautiful  Ode  to 
Evening ;  and  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  etc.,  is  also  in  great  part  a  praise  of 
nature. 

With  reflective  lyrics  of  nature  we  come  upon  a 
boundless  field.  Man's  life  and  the  life  of  nature  are 
so  mutually  suggestive,  we  so  perpetually  express  one 
in  terms  of  the  other,  — the  oak  dies,  hope  fades,  and  so 
on,  —  that  there  can  be  no  end  to  the  variety  of  emo- 
tions called  forth.  Burns  ploughs  up  the  daisy,  and 
the  analogy  with  his  own  fate  bursts  out  in  song.  Even 
light-hearted  Herrick  reminds  Corinna  (Corinnds  Going 
a  Maying)  that  life  ebbs  fast,  and  nature  must  be  en- 
joyed while  May  is  with  us.  When  the  feelings  come 
still  further  under  the  influence  of  the  intellect,  when 
we  allow  analogies  to  be  suggested  which  lead  us  hither 
and  thither,  there  results  the  reflective  lyric  of  the 

1  come.       2  loud.       3  meadow.       *wood.       5  now. 


48 


POETICS. 


graver  cast.  The  lyric  tends  to  be  less  spontaneous  ; 
but  it  gains  in  breadth  and  often  in  beauty.  Take  the 
process  in  little.    Wordsworth  says  :  — 

"  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  : 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

Here  we  note  (i)  a  pure  emotion,  a  simple,  unmixed 
influence  of  nature  ;  then  (2)  memory,  and  a  wish  born 
of  reflection  ;  finally  (3)  an  intellectual  conclusion,  a 
result  of  that  reflection.  This  process,  extended  or 
brief,  makes  a  reflective  nature-lyric.  Shelley's  Sky- 
lark  and  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  Andrew  Marvell's  Gar- 
den, and  especially  Milton's  L  Allegro  and  //  Penseroso, 
may  be  read  with  profit  as  excellent  examples  of  this 
class.  Mr.  Pattison  has  shown,  as  regards  Milton's  two 
poems,  that  they  are  not  " descriptive"  ;  —  that  descrip- 
tive poetry  (as  Lessing  proved  in  his  Laoco'dn)  is  "a 
contradiction  in  terms.  .  .  .  Human  action  or  passion  is 
the  only  subject  of  poetry."  The  charm  of  nature-poe- 
try is  not  its  description,  its  rivalry  with  a  painting  of 
the  scene  ;  it  is  the  suggestive  power  of  objects  to  stimu- 
late the  imagination,  —  in  Marvell's  fine  words,  often 

"  Annihilating  all  thafs  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 

The  perfection  of  this  sort  of  poetry  is  perhaps 
reached  in  Keats'  two  odes  To  a  Nightingale  and  On  a 
Grecian  Urn. 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


49 


Finally,  nature  may  serve  as  mere  mirror  for  intense 
feeling.  Such  a  poem  is  Tennyson's  Break,  break,  break. 

§  5.    LYRIC  OF  GRIEF. 

There  is  pure  grief  expressed  in  the  last  poem  cited 
above ;  and  indeed,  classification  of  lyrics  is  often  arbi- 
trary and  uncertain,  for  a  poet  does  not  confine  himself 
in  one  poem  to  one  feeling.  But  death  is  the  prime 
mover  of  grief,  and  we  consider  here  the  lyric  that 
deals  with  death.  Such  a  lyric  should  be  the  result  of 
immediate  feeling.  Malherbe,  the  French  poet,  took 
three  years  to  compose  an  ode  to  a  friend  who  had  lost 
his  wife.  When  the  ode  was  ready,  the  friend  was 
again  married. 

The  old-time  lament  was  epic  ;  it  sang  the  deeds  of 
the  dead.  So  the  end  of  Beowulf  tells  us  how  twelve 
warriors  rode  around  the  hero's  tomb  and  sang  his 
praise.  Nowadays  the  lament  is  lyric.  Examples  are : 
Dirge  in  Cymbeline ;  Shelley's  Adonais  (in  memory  of 
Keats)  ;  Tennyson's  ///  Memoriam  (Hallam).  These 
will  fairly  represent  the  simple  (also  expressed  in  Word- 
worth's  Lucy  and  in  Poe's  Annabel  Lee),  the  impas- 
sioned, and  the  philosophic  or  reflective.  But  In 
Memoriam  has  three  distinct  moods  :  (1)  epic,  memo- 
ries of  old  friendship  ;  (2)  lyric,  bursts  of  pure  grief ; 
(3)  reflective,  philosophic  —  as  in  the  canto  1 1 7,  Con- 
template all  this  work  of  time.  See,  further,  Milton's 
Lycidas  and  Arnold's  Thyrsis.  A  calamity  involving 
many  deaths  is  bewailed  in  Cowper's  Loss  of  the  Royal 
George. 

The  words  elegy  and  elegiac  must  be  used  with  cau- 
tion.   The  classical  lament  was  written  in  alternate 


POETICS, 


Aexameter  and  pentameter ;  this  was  called  elegiac 
verse.  It  came  to  be  used  for  any  reflective  poetry  ; 
hence  "  elegiac  "  refers  more  to  the  metre  than  to  the 
subject.  In  English  we  understand  it  generally  to 
mean  solemn  or  plaintive  poetry  ;  but  the  Roman  Ele- 
gies, for  example,  of  Goethe  are  anything  rather  than 
solemn  or  plaintive.  Still,  in  general  terms,  an  elegy 
is  a  song  of  grief,  whether  acute  or  mild.  It  can  also 
look  forward  to  death,  as  well  as  back.  Thus  Nash  has 
some  beautiful  lines  on  Approaching  Death  (in  Sum- 
mer s  Last  Will  and  Testament)  :  — 

"  Brightness  falls  from  the  air :  — 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair ; 
Dust  hath  closM  Helen's  eye ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die,  — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  !  " 

Less  immediate  is  Shirley's  Dirge  ("The  glories  of 
our  blood  and  state"),  or  Beaumont's  lines  On  the  Tombs 
in  Westminster  Abbey. 

On  the  contrary,  personal  and  full  of  terrible  suffer- 
ing are  those  saddest  verses  of  Cowper,  The  Castaway. 
Like  Beaumont's  lines  in  beauty,  and  more  read  than 
any  other  poem  in  our  language,  is  Gray's  famous 
Elegy.  There  is  no  passion  ;  it  is  simply  the  language 
of  the  heart  that  comes  face  to  face  with  the  wide  and 
impersonal  idea  of  death.  There  is  no  individual  grief, 
nor  is  there  appeal  to  tumultuous  sorrow,  as  in  Hood's 
Bridge  of  Sighs. 

Again,  the  living  can  cause  grief ;  there  can  be  a 
living  death.  So  Whittier  in  Ichabod  laments  the  fall 
of  Webster  ;  so  R.  Browning,  in  the  Lost  Leader,  be- 
wails —  as  it  is  generally  understood  —  Wordsworth's 
*  secession  '  to  the  Tories. 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


51 


Finally,  one  must  draw  a  sharp  line  between  the  sen- 
timental and  the  really  pathetic.  To  the  former  class 
belong  many  vulgar  but  popular  songs  about  blind  peo- 
ple, drunkards,  dead  sweethearts,  and  so  on  ;  to  the  lat- 
ter, Lamb's  Old  Familiar  Faces, 

§  6.    PURELY  REFLECTIVE,  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Purely  intellectual  verse  is  too  apt  to  be  didactic.  It 
easily  drifts  away  altogether  from  the  domain  of  poetry. 
Still,  there  are  poems  filled  with  exalted  thought  which 
deserve  a  high  place.  Such  is  Sir  H.  Wotton's  How 
Happy  is  he  Born  and  Taught  (simple)  ;  such  is,  for 
more  elaborate  work,  the  Ode  to  Duty  of  Wordsworth, 
full  of  high  enthusiasm.  Much  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
poetry  is  purely  reflective.  Here,  too,  we  may  mention 
such  lyric  poems  with  a  strong  epic  leaning  as  Gray's 
Progress  of  Poesy ;  Alexander Js  Feast  is  of  the  same 
nature.  Further,  we  note  the  ode  addressed  to  a  certain 
person,  like  Marvell's  'Horatian  Ode'  to  Cromwell; 
Ben  Jonson's  Ode  to  Himself ;  and  many  other  poems 
more  or  less  filled  with  the  reflective,  philosophical 
element.  Here  belong  such  half  allegorical  lyrics  as 
George  Herbert's  Pulley,  —  ("When  God  at  first  made 
man").  As  a  reflective  ode,  pure  and  simple,  wrought 
up  to  the  highest  fervor,  there  is  nothing  better  than 
George  Eliot's  one  poem,  "  O  may  I  join  the  choir 
invisible!' 

Didactic  poetry,  as  hinted  above,  can  hardly  be  called 
in  the  strict  sense,  poetry.  The  difference  between  it 
and  the  reflective  lyric  may  be  thus  stated  :  the  latter 
allows  the  poetic  suggestion  of  the  senses  or  imagina- 
tion to  lead  the  mind  in  certain  channels  (e.g.,  a  dead 


52 


POETICS. 


leaf,  our  mortality).  The  didactic  poem  forces  our 
poetic  instincts,  as  well  as  suggestions  of  the  senses, 
into  certain  channels  of  its  own.  But  this  is  putting 
Pegasus  to  the  plough. 

§  7.    CONVIVIAL  LYRICS;  VERS  DE  SOCIETE. 

Man  is  social  by  nature,  and  from  most  ancient  time 
he  has  had  convivial  songs.  Drinking  choruses  and 
songs  in  honor  of  wine  and  good  fellowship  over  the 
bowl,  are  found  in  every  literature.  The  wandering 
"  clerkes  "  of  the  middle  ages  were  very  skilful  with  this 
sort  of  lyric  ;  there  are  certain  famous  lines  attributed 
to  Walter  Mapes  :  — 

"  Meum  est  propositum 
In  taberna  mori,"  etc. 

In  our  own  literature,  drinking  songs  are  numerous  : 
thus  in  Bishop  Still's  play,  Gammer  Gurtoris  Needle, 
there  is  a  song  inserted  (probably  taken  from  some 
popular  ballad-collection  of  the  day)  in  praise  of  ale, 
"  I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat!'  The  Dutch  wars  during 
Elizabeth's  reign  greatly  increased  drinking-excesses 
among  the  English  ;  and  hence  the  frequent  allusions 
to  heavy  drinking  made  by  such  writers  as  Shakspere ; 
the  passages  in  Hamlet  (1.  4)  and  Othello  (11.  3)  are 
well  known.  —  One  of  the  best  short  songs  of  this  kind 
is  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  (11.  7),  with  the  refrain,  Cup 
us,  till  the  world  go  round ;  though  for  sheer  Bac- 
chanalian glee  and  reckless  merriment,  the  prize  must 
be  given  to  Burns'  Willie  brewd  a  peck  d  maut.  In 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Valentinian,  there  is  a  fine 
drinking-song,  God  Lyceus  ever  young.  Anacreon  was 
the  master  of  this  sort  of  poetry,  —  all  his  songs  praise 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


S3 


love  or  wine,  —  and  the  name  Anacreontic  is  often 
applied  to  the  convivial  lyric.  Thomas  Moore  has  both 
translated  Anacreon  and  also  written  many  songs  in  the 
same  vein. 

From  strictly  convivial  lyrics  we  pass  into  that  wide 
realm  covered  by  the  term  Vers  de  Societe.  Locker,  in 
his  collection  of  such  poems  {Lyra  Elegantiarum,  Lon- 
don, 1867)  quotes  a  definition  of  Vers  de  Societe:  "It  is 
the  poetry  of  men  who  belong  to  society  .  .  .  who  amid 
all  this  froth  of  society  feel  that  there  are  depths  in  our 
nature  which  even  in  the  gaiety  of  drawing-rooms  can- 
not be  forgotten.  Theirs  is  the  poetry  of  sentiment 
that  breaks  into  humour.  .  .  .  When  society  ceases  to 
be  simple,  it  [i.e.,  Vers  de  Soc]  becomes  sceptical. 
.  .  .  Emotion  takes  refuge  in  jest,  and  passion  hides 
itself  in  scepticism  of  passion."  Locker  thinks  Suck- 
ling and  Herrick,  Swift  and  Prior,  Cowper  and  Thomas 
Moore,  Praed  and  Thackeray,  the  representative  men 
of  this  class  of  poetry.  This  vers  de  societe  spreads 
itself  over  a  wide  area,  and  must,  of  course,  cover  some 
ground  already  marked  off,  —  love,  reflective,  and  other 
lyrics.  The  lower  forms  of  this  sort  are  lines  in  an 
album,  a  short  note  in  verse,  asking  pardon  for  some 
blunder  or  omission,  hits  at  passing  folly,  a  valentine, 
and  the  like.  Higher  are  poems  like  Clough's  Spectator 
ab  Extra,  where  sad  earnest  is  hidden  beneath  a  mock- 
ing tone.  The  poets  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  were 
particularly  apt  in  the  former  sort  of  verse ;  besides 
Herrick,  we  have  a  number  of  graceful  writers,  such  as 
Carew,  and  later,  Prior,  whose  Ode,  The  Merchant  to 
secure  his  treasure,  is  a  brilliant  specimen  of  the  Vers 
de  Soci/t/.    Carew  and  Herrick,  *  pagan/  as  Mr.  Gosse 


54 


POETICS. 


calls  them,  were  the  poets  whose  joyous,  indolent  verses 
made  the  Puritan  Milton  sigh  a  moment  over  his  more 
serious  task,  and  query  if  it  were  not  perhaps  better 
after  all,  "as  others  use,  To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the 
shade,  Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair."  These 
lines  from  Lycidas  admirably  define  a  great  part  of  the 
sort  of  poetry  treated  in  this  division,  as  opposed  to  the 
*  high  seriousness '  of  Milton's  own  work. 

§  8.    OTHER  LYRICAL  FORMS. 

As  a  rule,  the  lyric  is  of  no  fixed  length  or  form. 
But  there  are  certain  kinds  of  lyric  which  are  bound  by 
absolute  limits  as  to  quantity  and  confined  to  specified 
forms  of  verse.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  Sonnet.  The 
Sonnet  is  often  reflective,  but  the  prevailing  tone  is 
lyric.  Its  chief  advantage  lies  in  the  compression  of 
thought  in  the  compass  of  fourteen  lines,  in  which  the 
changes  of  rime  are  also  limited.  Wyatt,  Surrey,  Sid- 
ney, and  Daniel  were  among  the  first  to  use  the  sonnet, 
which  was  introduced  from  Italy  into  England.  Shak- 
spere's  so-called  sonnets  are  not  of  the  strict  form, 
being  three  'quatrains'  followed  by  a 'couplet.'  The 
true  sonnet  has  two  parts,  —  the  octave  and  sestette :  in 
the  first  eight  lines  the  subject  is  introduced  and  ex- 
panded ;  in  the  last  six  the  conclusion  or  result  is  drawn 
out ;  but  both  parts  must  relate  to  one  main  idea.  [For 
further  particulars  as  to  form,  cf.  Part  III.] 

As  an  outburst  of  pure  feeling,  Milton's  splendid 
sonnet  Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughter  d  saints  is  perhaps 
the  best  in  our  tongue.  Wordsworth  (e.g.,  To  Milton) 
and  Keats  {e.g.,  On  first  looking  into  Chapman  s  Homer) 
are  masters  of  this  form.    The  host  of  poor  sonnets  is 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


55 


enormous,  the  form  seems  so  easy  to  handle  ;  but  the 
really  great  sonnets  are  few.  A  sonnet  must  be  tran- 
scendently  good,  or  it  ought  not  to  exist. 

Lately  we  have  seen  a  number  of  new  lyrical  forms 
brought  into  English  by  the  younger  modern  school  of 
poets.  The  Rondeau,  the  Rondel,  the  Triolet,  the  Bal- 
lade, the  Villanelle,  were  invented  by  French  poets  of 
the  Fourteenth  and  the  Fifteenth  Centuries.  They 
depend,  like  the  sonnet,  on  arrangement  of  rimes  in  a 
fixed  number  of  verses,  and  tend  to  be  even  more  intri- 
cate. When  handled  by  a  master,  however,  they  are 
very  agreeable,  and  lend  themselves  admirably  to  the 
purposes  of  Vers  de  Societe.  \Cf.  E.  W.  Gosse,  Foreign 
Forms  of  Verse,  Cornhill  Magazine,  1877.] 

The  Epigram  is  less  rigid  in  form  than  the  above,  but 
it  rarely  exceeds  four  lines.  The  name  defines  purpose 
and  origin  :  verses  written  on  something,  —  say  with 
a  diamond  on  a  window-pane.  An  antithesis  or  pun  is 
likely  to  be  the  base  of  the  epigram.  An  Epitaph  is 
something  written  on  a  tombstone,  or  supposed  to  be  so 
written.  Both  epigram  and  epitaph  may  be  serious  or 
mocking.    Serious  is  Landor's  beautiful  quatrain  :  — 

"  I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife  ; 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life  — 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart.'1 

Mocking  is  Rochester's  combined  epigram  and  (quasi) 
epitaph  on  Charles  II.  :  — 

"  Here  lies  our  sovereign  lord  the  king, 
Whose  word  no  man  relies  on : 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing 
Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one." 


56 


POETICS. 


A  Cenotaph  may  be  inscribed  with  verses  as  if  it  were 
the  actual  tomb  ;  —  or  else  the  fact  may  be  told,  as  in 
those  fine  verses  of  Tennyson  in  Westminster  Abbey  on 
Sir  John  Franklin  :  "  Not  here !  the  white  north  holds 
thy  bones,"  etc. 

§  9.    LYRICAL  BALLAD. 

We  use  this  term,  not  in  the  sense  of  Wordsworth's 
Lyrical  Ballads,  but  to  indicate  the  folk-song,  or  ballad, 
that  is  lyrical  rather  than  historical.  Even  the  lyrical 
folk-song,  like  other  forms  of  poetry,  can  be  detected 
slipping  back  into  the  domain  of  religious  rites  and 
ceremonies.  Thus  we  find  rimed  charms  —  verses  sung 
to  expel  sickness,  drought,  tempest,  etc.  These  were 
once  parts  of  public  worship ;  Christianity  banned 
them  into  all  out-of-the-way  corners,  village  festivals, 
peasants'  firesides,  etc.  They  generally  had  an  epic 
beginning,  telling  how  the  sickness  was  caused  ;  this 
was  followed  by  the  regular  lyric,  meant  either  to  curse 
or  to  flatter  the  evil  out  of  the  possessed  subject.  The 
Indian  "  Medicine-man  "  with  his  charms  [cf.  etymology 
of  charm]  is  a  case  in  point. 

But  the  pure  lyric  was  early  developed  among  the 
people.  Thus  the  Cuckoo  Song,  quoted  above  [cf.  §  4] 
is  a  joyous  folk-song  to  the  spring.  —  Prefixed  to  a  song 
of  the  Thirteenth  Century  is  a  little  refrain  to  be  sung 
after  each  stanza.  This  refrain  is  not  by  the  author  of 
the  song,  but  must  have  then  been  an  old  catch,  sung 
by  the  peasants  time  out  of  mind :  — 

"  Blow,  northerne  wynd, 
Send  thou  me  my  swetyng. 
Blow,  northerne  wynd.  blow.  blow,  blow ! " 


LYRIC  POETRY. 


s; 


Still,  the  lyric  is  essentially  individual.  We  cannot 
claim,  even  for  the  so-called  folk-lyric,  or  ballad,  that 
spontaneous  growth  in  the  popular  heart  that  we 
claimed  for  the  epic  folk-song.  In  nearly  all  cases  we 
must  assume  individual  authorship.  So  that  the  lyrical 
ballad  is  different  from  the  lyrics  we  have  just  exam- 
ined only  in  so  far  as  the  former  catches  a  simple  and 
popular  tone.    Thus,  in  the  verses  — 

"  O  waly  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 
A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 
But  when  'tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld 
And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew  "  — 

we  can  very  plainly  hear  this  simple,  popular  tone  ; 
whereas  in  Byron's  famous  lines  — 

"  My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone"  — 

we  recognize  plainly  the  individual  tone,  though  the 
sentiment  is  the  same.  And  yet  it  is  not  impossible  to 
put  into  a  lyric  that  popular  and  simple  beauty,  as  it  is 
to  put  into  an  imitated  ballad  the  sentiment  of  a  whole 
people.  Burns  has  caught  the  Scotch  '  flavor/  if  we 
may  use  such  a  term  ;  and  his  best  poems  are  truly 
national,  truly  popular.  As  soon  as  he  leaves  his  native 
dialect  he  is  flat,  and  full  of  uninteresting  mannerisms. 
The  lyrical  ballad  is  judged  by  its  simplicity  and  sincer- 
ity;  in  these  qualities  Burns  and  Wordsworth  excel, 
though  in  very  different  ways.  According  to  a  Ger- 
man critic  (Carriere),  "  in  lyric  poetry  the  highest 
result  is  reached  when  a  great  poet  sings  in  the  popular 
tone."  This,  certainly,  is  true  of  Burns,  —  as  it  is  of 
Goethe. 


58 


POETICS. 


CHAPTER  III.  — DRAMATIC  POETRY. 

The  Epic  deals  with  the  past,  the  Lyric  with  the 
present.  The  Drama  unites  the  two  conditions,  and 
gives  us  the  past  in  the  present.  Events  are  the  epic 
basis  ;  but  they  unroll  themselves  before  our  eyes.  We 
have  the  epic  objectivity  —  i.e.,  the  sinking  of  the 
author's  own  thought  and  feeling  in  the  work  itself  — 
in  the  lifelike  course  of  events ;  we  have  lyric  fire  in 
the  different  characters.  What  lyric  can  match,  for 
example,  Hamlet's  beautiful  tribute  to  friendship  [Ham. 
in.  2]  ;  what  love-songs  compare  with  the  passion  of  the 
exquisite  little  Tagelied,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  [in.  5] 
where  the  lovers  part  at  daybreak  ?  What  reflective 
lyric  strikes  a  deeper  note  than  Hamlet's  famous  solilo- 
quy on  death  ?  —  A  drama,  then,  may  be  called  an  epic 
whole  made  tip  of  lyric  parts.  Aristotle's  definition  is 
imitated  action;  which  is  about  the  same  thing.  The 
lyric  element  in  the  drama  makes  it  more  rapid,  more 
tumultuous  than  the  epic,  which,  at  its  best,  holds  an 
even  and  stately  pace. 

§  1.    BEGINNINGS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  drama  is  no  exception  to  the  rule  concerning 
the  origin  of  poetry  ;  it  begins  in  religious  rites.  We 
shall  here  confine  ourselves  to  the  modern  drama,  par- 
ticularly the  English,  and  trace  its  beginnings  and 
development  up  to  the  time  of  Shakspere.  [For  a 
wider  survey  of  the  drama  in  general,  see  Ward's  arti- 
cle "Drama"  in  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica ;  for  the 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


59 


English,  see  the  same  author's  English  Dramatic  Lit- 
erature.} 

The  Greek  drama  began  in  the  Dionysian  feasts ; 
our  modern  drama  in  the  rites  of  the  early  Christian 
church.  These  were  elaborate  and  impressive.  By 
certain  ceremonies  —  such  as  the  Mass  —  effort  was 
made  to  change  the  past  history  of  the  church  into  a 
present  fact.  The  epic  part,  as  Ward  points  out,  was 
the  reading  of  the  Scripture  narrative ;  the  lyric  was 
the  singing ;  to  these  was  added  the  dramatic.  On  cer- 
tain church  festivals,  the  clergy  were  wont  to  bring  in 
actual  form  before  the  people  the  events  which  the  day 
commemorated ;  e.g.,  the  marriage  at  Cana.  At  first 
the  dialogue  was  in  Latin  ;  but  little  by  little  the 
speech  of  the  folk  was  brought  in.  "  The  French  mys- 
tery of  La  Resurrection  (Twelfth  Century)  is  regarded  as 
the  first  religious  drama  in  the  vulgar  tongue/'  Thus 
arose  the  so-called  Mysteries  and  Miracle-Plays.  (The 
name  should  be  mistery,  as  it  is  a  corruption  of  minis- 
terium.)  Later  than  these  —  which  were  dramatic  repre- 
sentations either  of  the  Gospel  narrative  or  of  legends 
of  the  church  —  came  the  Moralities,  where  virtues, 
vices,  and  other  allegorical  figures  appeared  in  appropri- 
ate costume. 

The  only  drama  which  our  race  knew  before  the  Nor- 
man Conquest  was  of  a  rude  kind.  Until  then,  the  old 
dialogues  between  Summer  and  Winter,  and  kindred 
attempts  at  dramatic  representation,  were  all  that  Eng- 
lish literature  could  boast  in  that  direction.  But  when 
the  churchmen  brought  in  the  Sacred  Drama,  there 
soon  arose  a  class  of  secular  performers.  These  secu- 
lar performers  were  the  successors  to  such  as  may 


6o 


POETICS. 


have  presented  the  rude  drama  of  heathen  origin. 
True,  a  dialogue  is  not  a  drama ;  but  there  was 
enough  action  in  some  of  the  dialogues  to  justify, 
despite  Mr.  Ward's  assertion,  the  adjective  'dramatic,' 
as  applied,  e.g.,  to  The  Strife  between  Summer  and  Win- 
ter, preserved  in  German  folk-song.  Compare,  further, 
two  fine  English  dialogue-ballads  :  Lord  Randal  and 
Edward,  Edward.  They  are  throughout  in  dialogue. 
There  is  no  narrative  verse.  The  two  speakers  bring 
out  the  whole  story  ;  though  of  course  they  do  not  qct 
a  story.  Gervinus  has  shown  the  popular  character  of 
the  English  drama,  and  its  close  connection  with  the 
ballad.  We  know  how  much  dialogue  there  is  in  many 
of  our  old  narrative  ballads  :  e.g.,  Sir  Patrick  Spens  ;  and 
there  are  dialogues  in  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  Ward's  dis- 
tinction is  far  too  sharp  to  hold  good,  when  he  says  : 
"  Before  the  Norman  Conquest  there  are  no  signs  in 
our  own  literature  of  any  impulse  towards  the  dra- 
matic form."  1 

The  drama  meets  a  popular  craving ;  it  gratifies  that 
wish  felt  by  all  men  to  see  their  own  life,  its  hopes  and 
fears,  pictured  in  the  acts  and  life  of  another.  So  the 
rude  miracle-plays  took  a  human  and  even  local  color- 
ing. The  minor  characters  now  and  then  bore  English 
names;  there  were  English  oaths,  —  rough,  popular  wit, 
—  drastic  acting:  —  all  these  means  were  used  to  bring 
the  play  home  to  men's  "  business  and  bosoms." 
Shakspere's  clown,  as  well  as  the  traditional  '  fool '  of 
our  comedies  to-day,  goes  back  in  direct  line  to  the 
'Vice,'  whose  business  it  was  to  plague  and  worry 
Satan  in  every  conceivable  way.    The  drama,  so  devel- 

1  Vol.  I.  p.  6,  Hist.  Eng.  Dram.  Lit. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


61 


oped,  could  not  possibly  continue  to  be  a  mere  part  of 
the  church  ceremonies.  It  attained  an  individual  exist- 
ence, and  grew  to  be  a  department  of  literature. 

The  elements  of  this  new  drama  were  all  present  in 
these  old  Miracles  and  Moralities  —  but  sadly  confused, 
and  jostling  each  other  in  a  now  intolerable  fashion. 
Tragedy  and.  Comedy  were  not  sharply  defined.  "  The 
Murder  of  Abel"  is  in  subject  a  tragedy;  half  the 
action,  even  in  the  critical  part,  is  roughest  horse-play. 
The  miracle  of  " NoaJis  Flood"  however,  was  nearly  all 
comedy  :  the  patriarch  flogs  his  wife  because  she  will 
not  go  into  the  ark.  Finally,  there  is  the  drama  often 
called  Reconciliation-Drama,  because  a  threatened  dari- 
ger  is  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  removed.  Of  this 
class  was  the  play  "Abraham  and  Isaac." 

If  imitated  human  action  alone  made  a  drama,  a 
prize-fight  would  come  under  that  head.  But  the  mind 
of  the  spectator  craves  more  :  he  demands  that  the 
actors  shall  be  individuals  of  a  sharply  marked  charac- 
ter. The  action  and  the  characters  are  the  two  great 
elements  of  the  drama.  In  the  best  plays  there  must 
be  a  thorough  blending  of  the  two  ;  the  action  must  at 
once  shape  and  be  shaped  by  the  characters  that  take 
part  in  it.  A  distinction  is  usually  made  between  the 
classical  and  the  modern  drama  in  this  respect :  in  the 
former,  we  see  a  gigantic  action,  a  manifestation  of  fate, 
dragging  along  with  it  characters  whose  struggling  is 
in  vain  ;  in  the  latter,  the  individual  characters  are  the 
central  interest,  and  the  action  seems  more  the  result 
than  the  cause  of  the  characters.  Shakspere  alone 
unites  the  advantages  of  ancient  and  modern  drama.  — 
In  the  old  plays  from  which  the  Elizabethan  drama 


62 


POETICS. 


sprang,  there  was  a  rude  but  marked  distinction  on  the 
above  principle  :  where  the  action  took  precedence,  the 
play  was  called  a  Mystery  or  a  Miracle  ;  when  the  char- 
acters attracted  the  main  interest,  the  result  was  the 
so-called  Morality  or  Moral  Play. 

§  2.     MIRACLE-PLAYS  AND  MYSTERIES. 

The  highest  form  of  the  drama,  the  tragedy,  is  where 
human  will  and  human  action  come  in  conflict  with  a 
higher  power.  Rough  as  they  were,  the  Miracle-Plays 
fulfilled  the  demands  of  such  a  drama ;  for  there  were 
both  elements  —  human  action  and  divine  interposition. 
The  fault  was  that  this  latter  element  was  enormously 
exaggerated,  and  the  only  way  to  retain  human  interest 
was  to  introduce  the  low  comedy  noticed  above.  Still, 
there  were  many  human  attributes.  The  biblical 
heroes  were  human  enough,  and  the  interest  of  the 
spectators  was  easily  aroused  by  the  rude  pathos  of 
Abel's  death,  or  by  the  edifying  spectacle  of  a  quarrel 
between  man  and  wife.  Scenery,  too,  was  attempted  ; 
and  the  costumes  were  regulated  by  dramatic  consis- 
tency \cf.  the  word  properties].  There  are  three  well- 
known  collections  of  these  plays  :  the  Towneley,  the 
Chester,  and  the  Coventry  collections.  From  various 
sources  we  compile  the  following  brief  notice  of  the 
plays  —  their  manner  and  matter. 

Each  play  was  called  a  "  pageant  ";  such  was  the  name 
of  the  vehicle  on  which  the  play  was  exhibited  (Ward). 
In  Rogers'  Account  of  the  Chester  Plays,  written  about 
the  end  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  we  are  told  that  "  every 
company  had  his  pageant,  which  pageants  were  a  high 
scaffold  with  two  rooms,  a  higher  and  a  lower,  upon 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


63 


four  wheels.  In  the  lower  they  apparelled  themselves, 
and  in  the  higher  room  they  played,  being  all  open  on 
the  top,  that  all  beholders  might  hear  and  see  them. 
The  places  where  they  played  them  was  (sic)  in  every 
street.  They  began  first  at  the  Abbey  gates,  and  when 
the  first  pageant  was  played,  it  was  wheeled  to  the  high 
cross  before  the  Mayor,  and  so  to  every  street."  As  to 
costumes,  the  good  souls  wore  white  ;  the  condemned, 
black  ("  Black  is  the  badge  of  hell"  says  the  king  in 
Loves  Labour s  Lost)  ;  and  the  angels  wore  "gold  skins 
and  wings."  The  sacred  personages  had  golden  beards 
and  hair.  Hell-torments  were  represented  with  consid- 
erable effect;  and  mechanical  devices  were  known  — 
as  where  the  cherry-tree  miraculously  bends  down  its 
branches  at  the  command  of  Mary. 

As  to  the  contents,  actual  stories  from  the  Bible,  or 
else  legends  of  the  church,  were  the  common  material 
to  be  dramatized.  The  action  was  not  well  knit  to- 
gether into  a  harmonious  whole ;  but  tended  to  be  a 
mere  series  of  situations.  Thus  in  the  murder  of  Abel, 
the  tragedy  does  not  from  its  central  point  spread  over 
the  play,  in  anticipation  and  result,  but  is  confined 
to  the  scene  where  Abel  is  killed.  Cain  and  his 
ploughboy  indulge  in  comic  dialogue  after  the  murder ; 
there  is  allusion  to  the  constable ;  and  the  play  ends 
with  a  travesty  of  an  English  royal  proclamation.  The 
Harrowing  of  Hell  was  one  of  the  earliest  subjects 
treated  by  the  Miracle-Plays,  —  the  well-known  story, 
founded  on  the  false  gospel  of  Nicodemus,  how  Christ 
went  down  to  hell,  subdued  it  (harrow  =  harry),  and 
released  the  patriarchs.  The  metre  of  these  plays  is 
rough ;  and  is  often  full  of  the  old  alliterations  :  e.g., 


64  POETICS. 

the  opening  passage  of  Parfre's  Murder  of  the  Innocents 
—  for  Candlemas  Day  — 

"  Above  all  £ynges  under  the  dowdys  install, 
loyally  I  reign  in  welthe  without  woo, 
Of  /lesaunt  /rosperytie  I  lakke  non  at  all ; 
.Fortune  I  /ynde,  that  she  is  not  my  foo. 
I  am  kyng  Herowd  "  ,  etc. 

These  rude  plays  utterly  failed  to  satisfy  the  higher 
dramatic  laws.  As  moving  situations,  as  a  patch- 
work of  bald  conversation,  stiff  action  and  occasional 
pathetic  elements,  they  show  a  beginning,  —  but  noth- 
ing more.  The  most  wonderful  fact  in  Elizabethan 
literature  is  the  sudden  leap  made  by  the  drama  from 
such  depths  to  the  height  of  Edward  II.,  of  Lear  and 
of  Hamlet.  The  miracle-plays  satisfied  only  the  rudest 
dramatic  instinct.  Higher  in  every  way  was  the  effort 
made  by  the  so-called  Moralities — a  second  step  toward 
the  finished  drama  of  Shakspere. — The  Mysteries  flour- 
ished chiefly  from  the  Thirteenth  to  the  Sixteenth 
Century,  and  were  mostly  presented  by  the  different 
guilds  or  trading-companies. 

§  3.    MORAL  PLAYS,  OR  MORALITIES. 

What  the  didactic  allegory  is  to  the  epic,  so  is  the 
morality  to  the  drama.  There  is  a  decided  attempt  to 
portray  character  and  to  enforce  a  moral.  But  we  find 
the  same  defect  as  in  the  Miracle-Plays.  There  we 
saw  that  bald  representation  of  events  satisfied  the  de- 
mand for  action  ;  we  look  in  vain  for  the  finer  art  of  a 
connected  plot,  a  thread  of  purpose  running  through 
all  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  play.  So,  too,  here ; 
instead  of  a  person  with  a  character,  there  is  simply  an 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


65 


abstract  character  or  quality.  Take  the  well-known 
Morality  called  Every  Man. 

Every  Man  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  Moral  Plays. 
It  is  purely  didactic,  and  shows,  as  the  messenger  or 
Prologue  announces,  — 

4  *  how  transitory  we  be  all  daye. 
Her  shall  you  se  how  Felaweship  and  Jolyte', 
Bothe  Strengthe,  Pleasure  and  Beau te, 
Will  fade  from  the  as  floure  in  maye ; 
For  ye  shall  here  how  our  heven  kynge 
Calleth  every-man  to  a  generall  rekenynge." 

Then  God  appears,  calls  "Dethe,"  and  bids  him  go 
summon  Every-man  to  make  his  pilgrimage  and  bring 
with  him  his  'reckoning'  —  i.e.,  of  good  and  evil  deeds, 
etc.  Every-man  is  fain  to  evade  this  command,  but  can- 
not. Fellowship,  called  to  help,  promises  to  do  any- 
thing and  go  anywhere  ;  but  when  he  learns  what  the 
journey  is,  utterly  refuses.  Kindred,  likewise,  will  not 
venture  on  such  an  expedition.  "  Goodes "  is  sum- 
moned ;  but  he  lies  in  chests  and  bags  and  cannot  stir. 
Every-man  is  desperate,  but  bethinks  himself  of  "Good- 
dedes."  Good-deeds  lies  'colde  in  the  grounde '  on 
account  of  Every-man's  sins,  and  cannot  move ;  but 
Good-deeds'  sister,  Knowledge,  goes  with  Every-man  to 
that  holy  man  Confession,  who  dwells  in  the  '  hous  of 
salvacyon' ;  Every-man  confesses  his  sins,  does  penance, 
and  so  releases  Good-deeds,  who  can  now  'walke  and  go.' 
Discretion,  Beauty,  Strength,  are  called  together,  and 
also  Five-wits.  But  they  all  refuse  to  go  with  Every- 
man, although  they  give  good  advice  enough  ;  for 
Beauty  and  the  others  run  as  fast  as  they  can  when 
they  see  Every-man  begin  to  fail  in  death.  Good-deeds, 


66 


POETICS. 


however,  remains  ;  Knowledge  tarries  till  the  last  mo- 
ment. Every-man,  after  commending  his  soul  to  God, 
dies  (on  the  stage)  ;  and  there  is  an  epilogue  which 
further  enforces  the  very  palpable  moral.1 

Not  so  good  is  the  Moral  Play  Lusty  Juventus,  which 
attacks  the  church.  Among  the  characters  are  Abhom- 
inable  Livyng,  God's  Mercy ful Promises,  and  the  like.  It 
was  written  under  Edward  VI.,  for  whom  Good  Councel 
makes  a  prayer  at  the  end  of  the  play. 

The  Moralities  are  an  advance  on  the  Miracles  ;  they 
humanize  the  characters  to  a  considerable  degree,  and 
the  nature  of  the  play  makes  consistency  of  action 
more  imperative  than  in  the  loose  progress  of  a  Mystery, 
where  a  serious  character  may  suddenly  wax  comic. 
The  development  of  the  drama  was  now  rapid  :  action 
and  character  were  to  be  woven  together  and  made 
into  a  dramatic  unity.  A  step  in  this  direction  is  a 
sort  of  historical  morality  called  King  John.  It  has 
been  attributed  to  Bishop  Bale.  King  John  is  asked 
by  the  widow  England  to  help  her  against  her  op- 
pressors. Other  characters  are  Sedition,  Clergy,  etc., 
but  it  is  important  to  note  that  now  and  then  a  real 
name  is  used  instead  of  an  abstraction.  Thus,  Sedition 
becomes  Stephen  Langton.  Compared  with  Shaks- 
pere's  play  of  the  same  name,  King  John  is  crude  to 
the  last  degree.  But  it  is  an  advance  from  the  older 
plays.  There  is  still  a  yawning  chasm  between  it  and 
the  Elizabethan  drama ;  to  bridge  this  chasm,  materials 
were  soon  supplied.  Chief  of  these  are  the  foreign 
impulses  and  influences  and  the  Interlude. 

1  For  the  subject  and  sources  of  this  play,  see  an  interesting  treatise, 
Every-Man,  Homulus  und  Hekastos,  by  Carl  Goedeke,  Hanover,  1865. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


6/ 


§  4.    FOREIGN  MODELS. 

The  revival  of  learning  found  a  hearty  welcome  in 
England.  Greek  and  Latin  were  carefully  studied  ;  and 
under  Henry  VIII.,  men  like  Erasmus,  Colet  and  Sir 
Thomas  More  made  the  "  new  learning  "  famous.  The 
Latin  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence,  —  comedies,  —  and 
the  tragedies  of  Seneca,  were  studied,  translated,  and 
even  acted  in  the  original  before  the  universities.  The 
Italian  imitations  of  these  plays  were  likewise  read  with 
interest.  The  Mysteries  and  Moralities  ceased  to 
please.  A  better  taste  arose.  General  history  was 
eagerly  studied.  People  demanded  that  the  drama 
should  treat  of  human  life  in  a  concrete  way.  But  not 
only  subject-matter,  —  the  form  and  style  of  the  drama 
were  greatly  influenced  by  the  study  of  foreign  models. 

Here,  then,  was  a  public  with  its  insipid  miracle  plays; 
a  learned  class  with  its  foreign  dramas.  Neither  was 
national.  But  working  mightily  in  both  classes  was  the 
strong  intellectual  life  that  rose  with  the  English 
national  spirit  and  reached  its  height  under  Elizabeth. 
The  task  was  to  find  a  common  ground  for  the  learned 
and  the  popular  taste.    This  was  found  in  the  Interlude. 

§  5.    THE  INTERLUDE. 

John  Heywood  was  the  genius  of  the  Interlude.  It 
was  a  play  performed,  as  its  name  implies,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  feasts  or  other  entertainments.  It  was  of  a  light 
character.  Take,  for  example,  Heywood's  Four  P's. 
A  palmer,  a  pardoner,  and  a  apothecary  meet  and,  after 
some  dialogue,  contend  who  is  the  greatest  liar  of  the 
three.    The  pedler  is  judge.    Each  tells  his  test-tale  ; 


68 


POETICS. 


the  'pothecary  wins  the  prize,  for  he  says  he  has  seen 
hosts  of  women,  but  never  one  out  of  patience.  Here 
at  last  are  actual  human  characters,  with  a  thoroughly 
human  action. 

This  is  not  very  high  comedy,  it  is  true  ;  but  it  is  a 
great  advance  upon  the  fleshless  abstractions  of  the 
moralities,  from  which  the  comedy  is  really  descended. 
Further  interludes  of  later  origin  are  such  as  Shakspere 
introduces  in  The  Tempest,  Loves  Labour s  Lost  and 
Midsummer  Nights  Dream.  Some  of  these  interludes_ 
are  called  "  Masques "  or  Masks.  The  Mask  proper 
was  an  Italian  importation,  brought  over  early  in  Henry 
VIII. 's  reign.  Men  and  women,  disguised  as  shepherds, 
shepherdesses,  and  the  like,  went  through  a  certain 
amount  of  acting,  mixed  with  a  great  deal  of  dancing. 
Often  classic  deities  were  represented.  The  Mask  as 
developed  by  Ben  Jonson  became  very  elaborate.  The 
greatest  English  Mask  is,  of  course,  Milton's  Comics. 

These  Interludes  and  Masks  raised  the  popular  taste. 
Now  that  the  public  demanded  such  work,  the  play- 
wright could  avail  himself  of  classical  models,  and  put 
into  English  settings  the  jewels  of  Seneca  and  Plautus. 
The  dividing  lines  of  tragedy  and  comedy  were  now 
sharply  drawn.  Tragedy  appears  in  its  first  English 
guise  in  the  play  (about  1562)  by  Thomas  Norton  and 
Lord  Buckhurst,  called  Gorboduc  or  Ferrex  and  Porrex. 
The  characters  are  human,  the  interest  human.  The 
plot  is  from  the  (mythical)  history  of  Britain.  The  play 
resembles  the  old  miracles  in  its  rough  action,  its  love 
of  violence  and  blood  ;  it  differs  from  them  in  its  care- 
fully drawn  and  consistent  plot,  its  division  into  acts, 
its  more  elaborate  form.    As  in  Greek  plays,  the  mur- 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


69 


ders  are  here  announced,  by  a  messenger.  There  is  a 
dumb-show  prefixed  to  each  act,  showing  what  is  to  fol- 
low ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  act  is  a  chorus.  (For  the 
dumb-show,  compare  the  play  in  Hamlet,  where  the 
poison  is  poured  into  the  ear  of  the  player-king.)  —  Gor- 
bo  due  is  an  imitation  of  Seneca.  Plautus's  well-known 
comedy  of  "The  Braggart  Soldier"  {Miles  Gloriosus) 
is  imitated  in  the  First  English  Comedy,  entitled  Ralph 
Roister-Doister,  written  by  Nicholas  Udall,  of  Eton, 
about  1550.  But  the  names,  scenes,  etc.,  are  all  Eng- 
lish. There  is  an  elaborate  plot  and  spirited  action. 
A  pretty  song  is  woven  into  the  play, — forerunner  of 
those  exquisite  lyrics  that  sparkle  in  the  drama  of  Shak- 
spere  and  Fletcher. 

We  have  thus  come  to  the  threshold  of  our  national 
drama.  The  task  before  its  early  artists  is  plain  enough. 
All  the  rude  remnants  of  the  old  plays  must  be  worked 
out ;  simplicity,  vigorous  action,  whatever  was  best  in 
the  old  must  fit  itself  in  the  new  to  a  finished  art,  a 
sympathetic  study  of  human  nature.  Marlowe,  Shak- 
spere,  Fletcher  and  Jonson  tell  how  this  was  done. — 
We  can,  therefore,  now  treat  the  finished  drama,  its 
forms  and  rules. 

§  6.    THE  DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  DRAMA. 

First,  however,  a  word  about  certain  general  rules  for 
the  drama.  The  drama  is  imitated  human  action.  Now, 
human  action  is  a  complex  affair ;  it  is  by  no  means  the 
province  of  a  dramatist  to  imitate  any  action  or  series 
of  actions  just  as  they  occur  in  daily  life.  A  confused 
mass  of  human  action  may  be  subordinately  used  —  as 


7o 


POETICS. 


in  Schiller's  Wallensteiri s  Camp,  or  a  mob-scene,  —  but 
it  must  be  a  help  to  a  higher  purpose.  The  action  is 
grouped  about  a  single  controlling  purpose ;  in  short, 
there  must  be  Unity  of  Action.  This  restriction  on  the 
nature  of  the  action  is  the  first  of  the  so-called  Three 
Unities ;  and  in  the  observance  of  this  rule  all  great 
dramatists  agree.  For  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  that 
the  action  should  consist  of  one  event,  as  some  have 
understood  the  rule.  Many  events  may  go  together; 
but  each  —  not  necessarily  in  a  conscious  way  —  must 
have  its  share  in  the  development  of  the  central  dra- 
matic purpose.  Nor  does  unity  of  action  compel  a 
unity  of  person.  Thus  the  dramatic  unity  of  King  Lear 
is  not  broken  by  the  introduction  of  Gloster,  Edmund 
and  Edgar  with  their  subordinate  action.  Several 
heroes  are  allowable  in  a  play,  provided  only  that  they 
do  not  so  change  places  or  importance  that  one  part  of 
the  play  differs  in  spirit  and  purpose  from  the  other. 

The  second  and  third  "  unities  "  are  by  no  means  of 
equal  importance  with  the  first,  nor  are  they  so  gener- 
ally acknowledged.  Thus  (2)  the  Unity  of  Time.  The 
structure  of  the  Greek  drama  was  of  such  a  nature  as 
to  call  for  far  stricter  treatment  in  this  regard  than  is 
demanded  by  the  modern  drama.  But  the  French 
critics  of  Louis  XIV.'s  time  made  the  classical  standard 
their  own,  and  scoffed  at  Shakspere  as  a  barbarian 
because  he  disregarded  the  second  and  third  unities. 
It  was  Lessing,  the  great  German  critic  and  man  of  let- 
ters, who  finally  drove  the  French  school  from  their 
dictatorship  in  dramatic  composition.  True,  some 
observance  of  the  spirit  of  these  rules  is  to  be  desired 
in  all  dramatists.    The  strict  rule  forbade  the  supposed 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


71 


time  of  the  play  to  cover  more  than  twenty-four  hours. 
So  boldly  did  the  modern  drama  transgress  this  rule 
that  in  1578  George  Whetstone  (in  his  Promos  and  Cas- 
sandra) complained  that  the  playwright  "  in  three  hours 
runs  through  the  world,  marries,  makes  children  men, 
men  to  conquer  kingdoms,  murder  monsters,  and  bring- 
eth  gods  from  heaven  and  fetcheth  devils  from  hell/' 
In  the  Winters  Tale  we  have  some  similar  liberties. 
The  Greek  drama  took  for  its  time  the  central  moment 
of  the  action  ;  and  by  narration  in  dialogue  brought  out 
the  preceding  steps  that  led  up  to  the  main  situation. 
The  result  is  announced  by  a  messenger, — e.g.,  the 
death  of  the  protagonist,  or  chief  actor.  In  other  words, 
the  Greek  tragedy  goes  at  once  to  the  catastrophe.  In 
the  modern  drama  we  begin  with  the  elements  of  the 
catastrophe  or,  if  in  a  comedy,  of  the  entanglement, 
and  let  the  action  and  the  characters  develop  under  our 
eyes.  The  modern  play  has  less  intensity,  but  more 
human  interest. 

The  third  Unity,  that  of  Place,  demanded  that  the 
events  should  occur  in  one  and  the  same  place.  This 
is  what  Hamlet  (11.  2)  calls  "  scene  individable.,,  Un- 
doubtedly this  rule  sprang  from  the  peculiar  construc- 
tion of  the  Greek  stage,  which  was  not  at  all  adapted 
to  change  of  scene.  But  in  modern  drama  the  Unity  of 
Place  is  practically  disregarded  —  except  in  certain 
comedies  and  farces  ;  and  Shakspere  especially  changes 
his  scenes  with  the  greatest  freedom.  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney in  his  Defence  of  Poesie  laughs  at  this  ceaseless  shift- 
ing of  scene  and  the  inadequate  stage  machinery  to  help 
the  illusion.  The  Germans  take  a  middle  course,  keep- 
ing the  same  scene  as  long  as  possible,  but  changing  it 
when  absolutely  necessary. 


72 


POETICS. 


So  much  for  the  Three  Unities.  It  is  folly  to  insist 
on  the  literal  observance  of  these  rules  ;  but  it  is  impor- 
tant to  heed  their  spirit.  Every  playwright  should  be 
regulated  by  the  spirit  of  unity,  first  of  all  in  action,  but 
also  to  some  extent  in  time  and  place. 

Further  rules  are  laid  down  for  the  drama,  —  e.g.,  that 
the  action  should  be  complete  in  itself.  It  must  stand 
out  clearly  as  a  dramatic  whole.  To  make  the  action 
complete,  there  must  be,  as  parts  of  the  organic  whole, 
causes,  development  of  these  causes,  a  climax,  or  height 
of  the  action;  —  then  the  consequences  and  general  con- 
clusion. The  technical  division  into  five  acts  is  simply 
a  convenience,  and  is  taken  from  the  Latin  plays ;  Hor- 
ace says,  A.  P.  189:  Neve  minor  neu  sit  quinto productior 
actu.  The  further  division  into  scenes  is  more  with 
regard  to  persons  (especially  in  German  and  French 
plays),  while  the  acts  regard  the  action  or  plot.  We 
may  name  the  real  divisions  of  a  play  as  follows  :  1.  The 
Exposition ;  2.  The  Tying  of  the  Knot ;  3.  Conclusion, 
—  The  Untying.  Prologue,  epilogue,  etc.,  are  mostly 
outside  the  action  of  the  play;  although  cfi  "the  pro- 
logue in  heaven  "  in  Faust,  and,  in  another  fashion,  the 
prologue  to  Ben  Jonson's  New  Inn.  We  noted  also 
the  Dumb- Show  in  G orb 0 due. 

The  Exposition  is  mostly  contained  in  the  first  act. 
The  second,  third,  and  sometimes  the  fourth,  develop 
the  action  up  to  a  climax.  This  is  what  Aristotle 
calls  the  tying  of  the  knot.  Lastly,  in  the  fifth  comes 
the  denouement,  the  untying.  Here  great  skill  is 
required.  Says  Mr.  Ward,  "the  climax  concentrated 
the  interest ;  the  fall  must  not  dissipate  it."  And  here 
we  note  that  this  close  or  catastrophe  must  always  be  a 
consequence  of  the  action. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


73 


In  tragedy,  the  conclusion  (mostly  a  death)  is  fore- 
shadowed through  the  whole  play  ;  in  comedy,  the  con- 
clusion (mostly  a  wedding)  is  a  sudden  surprise.  Thus 
in  Othello,  we  feel  that  the  hero's  jealousy  must  lead  to 
some  great  evil,  and  overwhelm  him.1  While,  on  the 
other  hand,  we  cannot  always  call  the  marriage  of  hero- 
ine with  hero  something  totally  unexpected,  still  we  are 
surprised  to  find  what  seemed  insuperable  barriers  to 
such  a  consummation  suddenly  removed. 

Again,  the  action  ought  to  be  probable.  Here  belongs 
the  famous  dictum  :  prefer  probable  impossibilities  to 
improbable  possibilities.  The  impossible  is  permitted  if 
it  harmonizes  with  the  action.  Thus  we  may  introduce 
ghosts,  fairies,  and  so  on  ;  though  in  Shakspere's  time 
ghosts  were  by  no  means  commonly  regarded  as  impos- 
sibilities. 

Consistency  of  character  and  fitness  of  the  actors  to  the 
action  need  not  be  insisted  upon.  Here  is  Shakspere's 
greatest  triumph.  Instead  of  mere  types  of  character 
like  the  lady's-maid  and  valet  of  French  comedy,  his 
men  and  women  are  flesh  and  blood,  who  do  not  merely 
follow  a  set  model,  but  stand  as  ideals  of  their  sort :  we 
can  say  Romeo  —  and  a  distinct  personage  leaps  before 
the  mind.  Emerson  has  finely  said  of  this  wonderful 
power  of  Shakspere  in  creating  characters :  "  What 
office,  or  function,  or  district  of  man's  work  has  he  not 
remembered  ?  What  king  has  he  not  taught  state  ?  .  .  . 
What  maiden  has  not  found  him  finer  than  her  delicacy? 

1  The  climax  and  the  conclusion  must,  of  course,  be  held  apart.  In 
Othello  the  conclusion  is  Othello's  death;  the  climax  is  where  he  becomes 
sure  of  his  wife's  guilt.  "  Why  did  I  marry?  "  he  cries  in  his  first  doubt ; 
then,  with  certitude,  comes  to  sheer  violence. 


74 


POETICS. 


What  lover  has  he  not  outloved  ?  What  sage  has  he 
not  outseen?" — The  Greek  drama  concentrated  itself 
upon  the  action,  and  drew  its  characters  in  more  shad- 
owy outline :  they  were  not  so  much  individuals  as 
Shakspere's  men  and  women  were. 

Finally,  the  surroundings  of  the  action  must  be  con- 
sistent. They  need  not  be  chronologically  faithful  — 
else  Lear  and  Julius  Ccesar  would  be  condemned ;  but 
they  must  not  make  a  violent  contradiction  with  the 
general  action. 

§  7.  TRAGEDY. 

Tragedy  presents  a  mortal  will  at  odds  with  fate. 
This  conflict  and  the  final  overthrow  of  the  individual 
make  up  a  tragic  drama.  There  must  be  a  central 
character  (or  there  may  be  more  than  one,  — a  group). 
The  motive  of  this  character  may  be  either  mistaken  or 
criminal  {Othello  —  Macbeth)  ;  but  the  end  is  in  either 
case  tragic. 

The  effect  upon  the  spectator  is,  as  Aristotle  said, 
to  produce  in  the  mind  pity  and  terror ;  —  sympathy  for 
the  victim,  fear  that  a  like  fate  may  overtake  us.  This 
emotion  excites  the  mind,  "purges"  it  of  smaller  and 
unworthy  thoughts,  and  so  works  a  katharsis,  a  purifica- 
tion. It  leaves  one  in  "  calm  of  mind,  all  passion 
spent." 

When  all  this  danger  is  only  apparent,  when  we  see 
that  only  every-day  blunders,  without  lasting  conse- 
quences, are  at  work,  we  feel  no  pity,  no  terror ;  we 
are  amused  :  —  it  is  a  Comedy. 

The  name  Tragedy  is  an  accident.  The  Greek 
drama  began  with  a  mere  chorus,  or  dithyrambic  refrain, 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


75 


sung  at  the  feasts  of  Dionysos,  and  the  singers  were 
dressed  in  goat-skins :  hence  (probably)  tragedy  "goat- 
song,"  from  tragos,  a  goat).  To  such  a  chorus  was 
added  some  one  who  chanted  epic  poems  ;  this  person 
acted  more  or  less,  and  addressed  his  chant  to  the  leader 
of  the  chorus,  who  answered  singly  or  with  the  whole 
chorus  :  so,  little  by  little,  the  tragedy  (or  drama)  was 
developed.  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles  added  more  actors. 
The  modern  tragedy  is  far  more  complex  than  the  an- 
cient ;  and  there  is  also  a  charming  trait  in  Shakspere's 
tragedies  which  was  unknown  to  the  sterner  drama  of 
Greece, —  the  gleam  of  hope,  of  a  new  dawn,  following 
on  the  night  of  ruin  and  despair.  Thus  in  Hamlet,  as 
a  German  critic  has  pointed  out,  we  have  young  For- 
tinbras,  who  will  doubtless  "  set  right "  the  times  that 
Hamlet  found  so  "out  of  joint.,,  So  with  Richmond  in 
Richard  III. ,  with  Malcolm  in  Macbeth;  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  it  is  the  reconciliation  of  the  rival  houses.  And 
yet  the  Greeks,  too,  recognized  in  their  way  that  a  true 
tragedy  always  ends  in  the  triumph  of  the  good  over 
the  evil.  The  hero  may  perish,  but  his  death  brings 
about  good  in  the  end.  The  tragedy  purifies  emotion, 
chastens  the  impulses,  teaches  men  to  accept  the  order 
of  things  and  to  believe  that  all  is  for  the  best :  — 

"  Men  must  endure 
Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither : 
Ripeness  is  all." 

Lowell  ably  sums  up  the  difference  between  classical 
and  modern  tragedy  :  "  the  motive  of  ancient  drama  is 
generally  outside  of  it,  while  in  the  modern  .  .  .  it  is 
within. " 


76 


POETICS. 


§  8.    IMITATIONS  OF  THE  GREEK  TRAGEDY. 

The  noblest  English  example  of  these  is  Milton's 
Samson  Agonistes.  The  time  is  limited  to  twenty-four 
hours  ;  there  is  a  Chorus ;  the  catastrophe  is  announced 
by  a  messenger.  In  our  day,  Swinburne  has  closely 
followed  a  Greek  model  in  his  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  and 
in  his  Erechtheus  —  the  latter  a  splendid  piece  of  work, 
with  elaborate  arrangement  of  the  chorus  (in  Strophe, 
Antistrophe,  and  Epode),  and  a  pure  and  lofty  diction. 

§  9.  COMEDY. 

Tragedy  sets  forth  the  triumph  of  the  general  over 
the  particular,  of  law  over  individuals.  In  Comedy, 
it  is  the  individual  who  triumphs  over  the  complications 
of  life.  —  But  the  term  "  Comedy  "  needs  definition; 
the  above  will  not  explain  all  the  uses  of  the  word. 

Dante  called  his  great  work  a  comedy,  and  simply 
meant  that  it  was  not  a  tragedy,  that  it  had  no  unhappy 
ending.  Cf.  Chaucer's  use  of  the  word  "  tragedy."  The 
name  Comedy  is  not  absolutely  clear  as  to  its  origin. 
Probably  it  was  derived  from  the  songs  sung  by  bands 
of  men  who  thus  celebrated  the  Dionysian  feasts.  In 
these  songs,  people  and  customs  were  held  up  to  ridi- 
cule. From  the  Greek  word  for  such  a  festal  proces- 
sion or  band,  we  have  the  name  Comedy.  A  chorus 
was  joined  to  these  single  songs,  and  thus  the  Greek 
Comedy  was  begun.  English  Comedy,  on  the  other 
hand,  sprang  from  the  Moral  Plays,  passing  first  into 
the  Interludes,  and  also  aided  by  the  models  of  classical 
as  well  as  modern  Italian  Comedy,  —  but  especially  by 
Plautus  and  Terence.  These,  in  their  turn,  had  imi- 
tated the  later  Grecian  Comedy. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


77 


Comedy  takes  a  cheerful  view  of  things.  The  sense 
of  perplexity \  so  common  in  our  lives,  is  rendered  sor- 
rowful by  tragedy,  mirthful  by  comedy.  In  one  case, 
tears;  in  another,  laughter,  is  what  "purges"  the 
mind.  —  In  tragedy  we  hold  as  doomed  and  guilty  even 
those  who  innocently  mistake.  In  comedy  we  are 
tender  toward  human  frailty.  Falstaff  is  a  coward  :  as 
Dowden  says,  he  is  "a  gross-bodied,  self-indulgent  old 
sinner,  devoid  of  moral  sense  and  of  self-respect,  and 
yet  we  cannot  part  with  him." 

Comedy  lies  either  in  the  characters,  or  in  the  situa- 
tion, or  in  both.  The  best  is  where  both  are  blended 
in  a  mellow  atmosphere  that  has  no  kindred  with  sor- 
row, nor  yet  with  uproarious  laughter.  Such  a  comedy 
is  found  in  As  You  Like  It  or  in  Twelfth  Night.  —  The 
comedy  that  relies  entirely  on  situation  is  called  a  Farce. 
—  English  comedy  since  Shakspere  has  been  handled 
with  great  success  by  Congreve,  by  Goldsmith,  and  by 
Sheridan  ;  but  at  present  seems  utterly  dead.  Most  of 
our  modern  plays  are  adapted  from  the  French. 

Under  Comedy  are  often  included  plays  which  really 
are  not  comic,  and  yet  are  not  tragic,  for  the  ending 
is  happy.  A  threatened  danger  is  at  last  averted,  but 
not  until  near  the  end  of  the  play.  This  sort  is  some- 
times called  Tragi-Comedy,  which  is  an  absurd  name. 
Shakspere  and  Fletcher's  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  has  an 
ending  at  once  sorrowful  and  happy  :  one  hero  is  killed, 
the  other  is  finally  married  to  the  heroine.  The  Ger- 
mans call  the  drama  which  is  neither  tragedy  nor 
comedy  Versohnungsdrama,  the  reconciling  drama ;  this 
we  consider  below.  —  Comic  scenes  are  often  woven 
into  tragedy  ;  and,  vice  versa,  though  rarely,  tragedy  is 


7* 


POETICS. 


found  in  some  one  scene  of  a  comedy.  But  we  shall 
find  that  such  a  mixture  is  successful  only  when  some 
particular  end  of  the  plot  is  to  be  served. 

Comedy  is  the  grand  field  for  "  poetical  justice." 
The  miser  is  tricked,  caught  in  his  own  snare ;  the 
proud  is  brought  low  ;  honest  merit  is  crowned  ;  true 
love  —  though  it  never  runs  smoothly  —  comes  to  a 
happy  union  ;  and  even  the  fool  is  made  happy.  In 
fact,  Shakspere's  clowns  often  teach  us  the  lesson  that 
a  fool's  wisdom  is  about  as  near  the  mark  as  the  world's 
wisdom.  In  Lear,  this  is  a  tragic  and  bitter  lesson  ; 
but  in  As  You  Like  It,  we  acknowledge  the  truth  of  it 
in  a  laugh.  —  The  comedy  is  the  tragedy  with  all  ele- 
ments of  danger  removed.  We  feel  this  from  the 
beginning ;  we  do  not  weep,  but  laugh.  Like  the 
tragedy,  therefore,  comedy  has  its  exposition,  develop- 
ment, climax,  and  conclusion.  Instead  of  death  and 
ruin  which  close  the  tragedy,  we  have  in  the  comedy, 
as  the  curtain  falls,  the  group  of  characters  all  united 
and  happy.  Even  the  villain,  after  he  has  been  soundly 
punished  for  his  wickedness,  often  turns  over  a  new 
leaf,  and  announces  resolutions  of  prodigious  virtue. 

As  to  the  form,  tragedy  is  fond  of  verse;  —  comedy 
inclines  to  prose.  The  tragedy  is  full  of  resounding 
lines,  is  further  removed  from  the  ways  of  real  life,  — 
uses  more  elaborate  diction,  figures  and  general  con- 
struction. The  comedy  —  notably  in  Congreve,  Gold- 
smith and  Sheridan  —  tends  to  be  brilliant,  especially 
in  the  direction  of  rapid  and  sparkling  dialogue.  There 
is  also  much  of  this  word-fencing  in  Shakspere. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


79 


§  IO.  RECONCILING-DRAMA. 

The  name  Tragi-Comedy  is,  as  we  said,  absurd.  No 
play  can  be  at  once  tragedy  and  comedy.  To  be  sure, 
life  is  made  up  of  the  two  elements,  and  the  drama  is  a 
copy  of  life ;  but,  as  Lessing  pointed  out,  only  Infinity 
could  be  spectator  of  this  infinite  variety,  and  man  is 
bound  to  take  a  definite  point  of  view  —  either  the 
comic  or  the  tragic.  Dryden  {Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry) 
says  sharply  but  truthfully  :  "  There  is  no  theatre  in 
the  world  has  anything  so  absurd  as  the  English  Tragi- 
comedy. .  .  here  a  course  of  mirth,  there  another  of 
sadness  and  passion,  and  a  third  of  honor  and  a  duel : 
thus  in  two  hours  and  a  half  we  run  through  all  the  fits 
of  Bedlam. "  And  he  goes  on  to  say  that  mirth,  the 
result  of  comedy,  is  incompatible  with  compassion,  the 
end  of  tragedy :  the  two  results  destroy  each  other.  — 
Dryden,  in  principle,  is  perfectly  right.  And  we  shall 
find,  in  spite  of  a  superficial  mingling  of  comic  and  tragic 
in  some  of  Shakspere's  plays,  that  each  play  has  a  uni- 
form spirit  and  tendency  running  through  every  scene. 
Thus  in  Hamlet,  the  clown's  joking  by  the  grave 
awakens  no  real  mirth  :  it  deepens  the  sense  of  tragedy. 

But  there  is  nevertheless  a  third  sort  of  drama.  It 
is  not  made  up  of  tragic  and  comic  elements,  but  it  is 
a  harmony,  a  reconciling  of  the  two.  The  tragic  con- 
flict is  softened  to  a  triumph  of  earnest  will  over  heavy 
obstacles ;  the  wantonness  and  wilfulness  of  comedy 
are  dignified  into  serious  purpose.  So  Henry  V.  is 
made  by  Shakspere  to  represent  a  serious  and  lofty 
purpose  that  gains  its  object ;  but  the  cheerfulness  of 
life  is  also  admitted.    Another  example  is  Goethe's 


8o 


POETICS. 


Iphigenie.  Carriere  further  names,  under  this  head,  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  Cymbeline,  and  Measure  for  Meas- 
ure. In  these  a  threatened  danger  is  averted,  partly 
through  Providence,  partly  through  the  energy  of  the 
characters  themselves.  In  these  plays,  too,  we  have 
some  of  Shakspere's  noblest  women  put  in  the  fore- 
front of  the  action:  —  Portia,  Imogen  and  Isabella. — 
With  Goethe's  Faust,  finally,  we  reach  the  subjective 
drama.  It  is  the  development  of  a  human  soul :  not 
tragedy,  not  comedy, — but  the  subjective  drama, 
teaching  the  lesson  of  incessant  individual  struggle  to 
higher  stages  of  life  and  action,  —  "evermore  to  strive 
towards  the  highest  existence."  1  This  poem  comes  as 
near  as  a  poem  well  can  to  perfect  reconciliation  of 
tragedy  and  comedy :  it  is  a  drama  of  the  human  soul 
wrestling  with  all  the  problems  of  life. 

§  II.     OTHER  FORMS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Not  strictly  dramatic,  but  tending  in  that  direction 
are  such  forms  of  poetry  as  the  Idyll.  The  Idyll  is 
mainly  literary  —  for  reading,  not  for  acting.  It  is 
originally  a  dialogue  of  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  or  of 
similar  characters,  and  has  a  strong  epic  flavor  [cf  I. 
§  5].  A  charming  example  of  the  dramatic  Idyll  in  its 
highest  form  is  the  famous  Fifteenth  Idyll  of  Theocri- 
tus. Then  there  are  Eclogues  —  much  like  the  last, 
except  that  Eclogues  are  confined  to  shepherds  and 
their  friends,  while  the  Idyll  just  noted  had  for  char- 
acters a  couple  of  city  dames,  and  contained  a  song 
and  abundant  action.  The  Eclogue  is  quiet  and  rural. 
In  English  we  have  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calender. 

1  "Zum  hochsten  Daseyn  immerfort  zu  streben."    Faust,  II.  Act  I. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY. 


81 


Finally,  there  arose  a  regular  Pastoral  Drama,  whose 
origin  "was  purely  literary."  Famous  as  models  of  this 
sort  were  Tasso's  Aminta  and  Guarini's  Pastor  Fido. 
Love  and  Allegory  were  the  main  ingredients.  In 
England  there  were  two  branches:  —  the  Mask  (already 
noticed)  and  the  regular  Pastoral  Drama,  of  which  the 
best  examples  are  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess  and 
Ben  Jonson's  Sad  Shepherd  (fragmentary).  The  splen- 
did Mask  of  Comus  soars  above  its  fellows  by  reason 
not  only  of  its  exquisite  versification  and  diction,  but 
also  of  its  lofty  moral  tone.  Properly  speaking,  this 
sort  of  poetry  should  be  only  a  dance-song  with  masks. 
But  the  masks  give  a  character  to  each  dancer — he  must 
sing,  or  speak,  in  conformity  with  this  character  —  and 
so  comes  the  dramatic  element. 

Nowadays  this  Pastoral  Drama  is  unknown.  But 
combined  with  music  it  is  still  common  enough.  We 
mean,  of  course,  The  Opera.  The  opera,  says  Schlegel, 
is  "  the  anarchy  of  the  arts  ;  since  music,  dancing  and 
decoration,  struggling  to  outrank  one  another,  make  up 
[its]  real  character."  Recently,  Wagner  has  tried  to 
reconcile  the  best  poetry  —  both  in  subject  and  treat- 
ment —  with  the  best  music.  But  in  general  the  opera 
has  no  literary  merit. 

We  need  not  consider  at  length  the  minor  forms  of 
dramatic  poetry.  Such  are  the  Tagelieder  (Provencal, 
Alba)  or  Daybreak-Songs  of  parting  lovers,  very  popular 
among  the  troubadours  and  certain  German  Minne- 
sanger :  —  for  example,  the  bold  figures  and  masterly 
diction  of  Wolfram.  A  specimen  in  English  is  the 
parting  scene  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  in.  5.  Similar  is 
the  Serenade,  where  lover  and  mistress  sing  alternate 


82 


POETICS. 


stanzas  :  there  is  a  pretty  specimen  by  Sir  P.  Sidney. 
With  more  epic  treatment,  the  same  dramatic  form  is 
shown  in  R.  Browning's  In  a  Gondola. 

Lastly,  we  have  what  may  be  termed  Mock-Tragedy. 
All  dramatic  forms  are  used,  but  in  broad  burlesque, 
Carey  and  Fielding  mocked  the  stilted  tragic  style  of 
Lee  and  others  in  two  amusing  plays  ;  —  the  title  of 
Fielding's  is  "  The  Tragedy  of  Tragedies,  or  the  Life 
and  Death  of  Tom  Thumb  the  Great.  With  the  Anno- 
tations of  H.  Scribblerus  Secundus."  It  is  to  be  borne 
in  mind  that  the  fact  of  two  persons  talking  to  each 
other  does  not  constitute  a  drama,  is  not  even  necessarily 
dramatic  in  any  degree.  Hence  a  dialogue,  or  exchange 
of  opinions  in  verse,  belongs  to  the  didactic  class,  and 
is,  as  a  rule,  not  even  poetry  (cf.  Chap.  I.  §  4). 

§  12.    OUTWARD  FORM  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

We  saw  that  Tragedy  tends  to  verse,  and  Comedy 
(though  not  always)  to  prose.  Further,  the  drama  may 
avail  itself  of  the  Chorus,  the  Monologue,  or  the  Dia- 
logue. The  first,  as  we  saw,  is  much  used  in  the  classic, 
especially  the  Greek  drama.  In  modern  drama  it  is  not 
common  (cf.  §  8) ;  though  here  and  there  met  with,  —  as 
in  Gorboduc,  where  it  is  imitated  from  the  tragedies  of 
Seneca ;  or  in  Henry  V.,  where  it  is  a  chorus  only  in 
name,  and  simply  helps  to  explain  the  action.  The 
Monologue  is  more  common.  Hamlet  is  remarkable  in 
this  respect.  But  the  great  favorite  is  the  Dialogue, 
which,  in  its  rapid  movement  and  shifting  character, 
lends  itself  better  to  the  purposes  of  imitated  action 
than  any  other  form  of  speech. 


Part  II. 


STYLE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Poetry,  then,  may  treat  its  subject-matter  as  an  Epic, 
—  by  narration  :  or  as  Lyric,  —  by  addressing  it,  ex- 
pressing certain  feelings  about  it  :  or  as  Drama,  —  by 
letting  it  speak  for  itself. 

We  now  ask  whether  there  is  anything  noteworthy 
in  the  words  and  phrases  by  which  poetry  treats  its  sub- 
ject; that  is,  we  consider  Poetical  Style.  In  the  third 
and  last  division  of  this  book  we  shall  treat  the  harmony 
of  sounds,  the  laws  of  verse.  So  that  of  the  three 
elements  of  poetry,  we  have  considered  the  Thought, 
have  yet  to  consider  the  Sounds,  and  now  busy  our- 
selves with  Words  —  whether  separately  or  in  combina- 
tion. Prof.  Sylvester  calls  these  elements  Pneumatic, 
Rhythmic,  and  Linguistic. 

The  study  of  poetical  style  must  be  to  some  extent 
a  study  of  words  and  their  origin.  Comparative  Phi- 
lology has  shown  us  that  all  our  words  go  back  to 
descriptions  of  natural  things,  to  pictures.  With  the 
currency  of  words,  their  pictorial  suggestion  wears  away. 
They  become  mere  counters  for  the  game  of  conversa- 
tion ;  thus  caprice  is  now  for  most  of  us  (though  cf.  As 
You  Like  It,  in.  3.  6)  a  symbol  of  an  abstract  thought, 


84 


POETICS. 


not  the  picture  of  a  lively  animal.  So,  too,  with  that 
old  word  "  daughter  "  :  it  is  now  a  class-name,  whereas 
once,  we  are  told,  it  meant  "milkmaid."  Even  words 
brought  into  our  speech  in  later  times  suffer  a  like 
process,  and  lose  their  color  and  force.  We  are  not 
prepared  to  talk  with  Herrick  about  the  "candor"  of 
Julia's  teeth  ;  or  as  Bacon  does,  about  the  ejaculations  of 
the  eye,  or  even  with  Milton,  about  "  elephants  endorsed 
with  towers." 

Poetry  instinctively  shrinks  from  colorless  and  ab- 
stract talk.  Prose  concerns  itself  with  the  sense  alone  ; 
but  poetry  always  seeks  a  concrete  image.  Therefore 
it  tries  to  restore  a  fresh  and  suggestive  force,  a  pic- 
torial force,  to  our  speech.  It  leaves  the  beaten  track 
of  language,  turns  away  from  it.  Hence  the  word  trope, 
from  the  Greek  trepo,  —  to  turn. 

Now  we  may  turn  away  from  the  ordinary  meanings 
of  words,  that  is,  we  may  use  a  different  kind  of  word, 
to  make  up  our  poetical  style ;  or  we  may  adopt  a  differ- 
ent arrangement  oi  words.  In  ordinary  speech  we  say 
directly  :  "  A  troop  came  swinging  their  broadswords." 
In  poetical,  vivid  style,  we  say :  "  Came  a  troop  with 
broadswords  swinging."  There  is  a  turning  from  the 
ordinary  arrangement,  and  a  consequent  vigor  of  style. 
Inversions  like  this  are  also  used  in  vivid  conversation ; 
but  no  one  would  ever  say  in  common  speech,  as  Milton 
says  in  poetry  — 

44  Erroneous  there  to  wander  and  forlorn.'" 

Poetical  style  is  therefore  distinguished  from  ordinary 
speech  by  the  use  (i)  of  a  different  kind,  and  (2)  of  a 
different  arrangement  of  words.    The  two  terms  which 


STYLE. 


85 


we  shall  employ  to  distinguish  these  two  kinds  of  style 
are  terms  not  always  held  apart.  But  this  arbitrary 
use  is  convenient.  We  call  the  first  (a  different  kind), 
which  refers  to  the  meaning,  Trope ;  we  call  the  sec- 
ond (different  arrangement),  which  refers  to  the  order, 
Figure. 

Tropes  and  Figures  make  up  the  bulk  of  those  pecu- 
liarities of  style  which  we  are  wont  to  call  poetic.  But 
there  are  other  means  by  which  we  make  expression 
more  vivid ;  and  though  these  latter,  like  many  figures 
and  tropes,  are  frequently  used  in  an  ordinary  prose 
style,  still  they  must  be  briefly  mentioned  as  aids  to 
poetic  language.  Thus  instead  of  the  variation  from 
ordinary  expressions,  we  may  have  additions.  Familiar 
are  the  "  poetic"  adjectives  and  adverbs.  As  a  rule,  an 
abundance  of  adjectives  means  poverty  of  imagination. 
But  often  an  adjective  may  "  connote  "  so  much  as  to 
make  a  positive  addition  to  the  vividness  which  is  the 
object  of  poetry.  When  Marlowe  speaks  of  "shallow 
rivers  by  whose  falls  Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals," 
the  imagination  registers  a  gain.  "  Shallow  "  suggests 
clearness,  murmurs,  ripples,  etc.  So,  too,  Shakspere's 
"multitudinous  sea."  Springing  from  the  same  intense 
and  abiding  wish  of  poetry  to  avoid  the  commonplace, 
the  cold,  the  abstract,  is  the  use  of  Epithets  (cf.  below 
§  i,  under  Kenning).  The  epic  cannot  mention  even  a 
hero's  name  without  attaching  to  it  a  concrete  notion  : 
it  is  "  crest-tossing  Hector,"  "  swift-footed  Achilles." 
From  this  to  trope  is  only  a  step ;  we  next  make  ail 
object  more  vivid,  more  individual,  by  the  aid  of  another 
object  (cf.  below,  Metaphor).  The  limit  of  this  process 
is  reached,  when,  instead  of  a  rapid  confusion  of  one 


86 


POETICS. 


object  with  another,  the  poet  places  them  both  before 
our  eyes  and  thus  makes  the  original  thing  compared 
as  individual  and  important  as  possible  (Simile).  [An 
attempt  to  explain  the  superiority  of  poetic  style  to 
prose  style  will  be  found  in  §  IV.  of  H.  Spencer's  Phi- 
losophy of  Style.'] 

§  I.    HISTORICAL  SKETCH. 

Professor  Heinzel1  has  shown  that  many  traits  of 
poetical  style  are  common  to  the  Indian  Vedas  and  our 
own  early  Germanic  song.  We  consider  briefly  some 
of  the  prominent  traits.  First,  there  is  the  love  of 
repetition.  This  affects  words  (subject  or  object)  and 
phrases.  In  the  Vedas  :  "now  will  I  sing  Indra's  hero- 
deeds,  that  the  lightning-hurler  has  done."  Indra  is 
repeated  under  another  name  —  a  descriptive  name. 
Something  like  this  is  Lear's  — 

44 1  do  not  bid  the  thunder -bearer  shoot, 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove." 

Act  ii.  Sc.  4. 

Look  at  Beowulf,  and  we  have  a  similar  figure ;  as  in 
3 1 1 1  ff .  :  — 

"  Then  the  bairn  of  Wihstan  bade  command, 
man  of  battles,  many  a  warrior, 
many  a  hero,  hither  to  bring, 
from  far  the  pyre-wood,  the  people-lords.1' 

In  prose:  "Wihstan's  son,  man  of  battles,  bade  com- 
mand many  warriors,  many  heroes  (the  house-owners), 
that  they,  the  folk-lords,  should  bring  funeral-wood."  The 
result  of  this  repetition  in  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  is  to  give 
a  restless,  forward-and-back  motion  to  it,  so  that,  as  has 

1  Ueber  den  Stil  der  altgermanischen  Poesie,  Strasburg,  1875. 


STYLE. 


87 


been  said,  we  seem  to  be  very  active,  but  do  not  move 
forward.  This  is  in  strong  contrast  to  the  quiet  move- 
ment of  the  Greek  epic. 

Sometimes  this  "  Variation"  is  applied  to  a  whole 
clause.    Thus  Beowulf,  48  ff .  :  — 

"  They  let  the  wave  bear  him, 
they  gave  him  to  ocean  ;         grave  was  their  heart, 
mournful  their  mood." 

But  there  are  also  tropes  in  the  stricter  sense  of  the 
word.  Our  oldest  poetry  has  almost  no  formal  compari- 
sons or  similes  (cf  below).  It  had  no  time  to  turn  to  a 
quite  foreign  object  and  describe  it,  leaving,  meanwhile, 
the  matter  in  hand,  as  the  Homeric  poems  are  so  fond 
of  doing.  But  our  poetry  makes  up  for  this  lack  by  its 
profusion  in  Epithets,  or  characteristics.  For  the  thing 
itself  is  substituted  a  characteristic  of  the  thing.  This 
trope  is  often  called  by  its  Norse  name,  Kenning.  Thus 
the  sea  was  the  "whale's  bath,"  the  "water-street,"  the 
"path  of  the  swan,"  the  "foamy  fields,"  the  "wave- 
battle,"  and  so  on.  Arrows  are  "  battle-adders."  See 
too  the  above  extracts  from  Beowulf.  A  wife  is  prettily 
called  "  the  weaver  of  peace,"  for  marriage  often  put  a 
stop  to  feuds  and  wars. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  trope  was 
confined  to  a  few  words.  It  did  not  take  long  flights. 
Extended  metaphorical  phrases  are  unknown.  A  short, 
vivid  epithet,  —  often  several  such,  not  at  all  harmoni- 
ously joined,  —  much  repetition,  variation,  ceaseless 
forward-and-back :  such  are  the  chief  characteristics. 
Speaking  of  a  sword,  the  poet  tells  us  "the  battle- 
gleam  was  unwilling  to  bite."  "Battle-gleam"  is  a 
vivid  trope  for  literal  "  sword  "  ;  but  by  the  time  the 


88 


POETICS. 


poet  reaches  his  verb,  he  has  forgotten  his  noun,  and 
does  not  stop  to  ask  how  a  "  gleam"  can  "bite,"  but 
uses  another  vivid  word  simply  with  regard  to  the  com- 
mon (cf.  below)  personification  of  weapons.  Here  lie 
at  once  the  merit  and  the  defect  of  our  old  poetical 
style.  There  is  also  something  of  this  haste  in  Hebrew 
poetry. 

It  is  a  long  journey  from  the  style  of  those  poets  who 
sang  of  their  Germanic  heroes  to  the  finish  and  bril- 
liancy of  a  modern  singer  who  can  not  only  "  take  all 
knowledge  for  his  province,"  but  also  use  a  hundred 
smooth  roads  through  it.  The  style  of  Beowulf  differs 
from  the  style  of  Tennyson  just  as  a  prairie  of  last 
century  differs  from  the  wheat-field  of  to-day.  The 
enormous  change  is  due  chiefly  to  the  influence  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  classics,  in  which  flourished  every  sort 
of  trope  and  figure.  Modern  literature  is  essentially 
"Gothic  "  —  i.e.  Germanic  ;  but  its  style  of  expression  is 
overwhelmingly  classical  in  all  external  qualities.  A 
writer  in  one  of  our  journals  recently  remarked  that 
the  history  of  the  development  of  modern  poetical  style 
remains  to  be  written.  It  is  here  our  business  simply 
to  treat  that  style  as  we  find  it  in  our  best  poets. 

§  2.  TROPES. 

This  turning  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  language  is 
confined  to  the  meaning,  and  does  not  concern  the 
form  and  order  of  words.  The  poet  wishes  to  put  in  a 
vivid,  palpable  way  some  thought  or  idea  which  he  has 
in  his  mind.  To  express  this  vividly  and  at  the  same 
time  beautifully, — for  beauty,  harmony,  is  the  object 
of  all  art,  —  he  chooses  some  picture  that  shall  at  once 


STYLE. 


89 


interpret  the  thought  and  also  in  itself  satisfy  our  in- 
stinct for  beauty.  Instead  of  saying  that  a  pleasant 
idea  comes  without  labor  into  his  mind,  the  poet  turns 
aside  from  these  colorless  words  and  gives  us  a  picture :  — 

"  There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 
Self-balanced  on  a  joyous  wing." 

Or  take  the  following  stanza  of  Whittier's  Ichabod, 
and  see  how,  in  his  intense  feeling,  the  poet  uses  the 
vivid  trope  rather  than  the  literal  symbol  of  thought :  — 

"  O  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 
When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 
Falls  back  in  night." 

That  is,  it  is  best  to  endure  in  silence  the  sorrow  and 
shame  that  one  feels  when  a  great  man  betrays  his 
trust.  Even  in  this  prose  rendering,  we  slip  into  a 
trope  —  but  it  is  not  vivid  and  concrete,  as  in  the  poem. 
The  more  intense,  the  more  true  to  nature  a  concrete 
trope  is,  the  stronger  its  poetical  effect.  Thus  Dante, 
Inferno,  33, —  "  I  did  not  weep,  /  was  so  turned  to  stone 
within!'  The  terrible  fidelity  of  this  trope  is  what  gives 
it  force.  A  moment's  reflection  will  show  how  this 
instinct  runs  through  all  speech.  "  Hard  "  or  "soft" 
heart;  "sweet"  disposition  —  and  so  on;  —  are  tropes 
that  are  no  longer  thought  of  as  tropes.  In  this  way, 
all  language  has  its  poetical  elements  ;  and  it  has  been 
said  that  every  word  was  at  its  beginning  a  poem. 
Brush  off  the  dust  of  common  use,  and  the  poetry  of 
any  word  whose  etymology  we  know  will  at  once  flash 
out.  Poetry  uses  tropes  consciously,  boldly,  and  syste- 
matically;  restores,  as  far  as  it  can,  color  and  freshness 


go 


POETICS. 


to  language,  and  vividness  to  expression.  The  rich  array 
of  pictures  satisfies  the  intellectual  eye,  just  as  the 
harmony  and  music  of  metre  satisfy  the  ear.  When 
these  combine  in  interpreting  a  noble  or  beautiful  idea, 
we  have  poetry.  Poetical  style,  poetical  language, 
under  the  control  of  metrical  law,  is  therefore  the 
material  in  which  the  poet  expresses  himself.  It  is  not 
a  mere  ornament.  It  is  the  material  —  useless  without 
a  vivifying  idea,  but  none  the  less  necessary  to  that 
idea.  This  is  why  we  lay  such  stress  on  the  imagina- 
tion as  chief  gift  of  the  poet.  He  puts  thought  into 
images  or  pictures. 

The  Trope  is  a  substitution  of  one  thing  for  another, 
on  the  basis 

A.  Of  Resemblance  ;  which  may  be 

1.  Assumed. 

2.  Implied. 

3.  Stated,  — 

a.  Stated  positively. 

b.  "  negatively. 

c.  "      in  degrees  of  comparison. 

B.  Of  Connexion  ;  which  may  be 

1.  Logical. 

2.  Mathematical. 

C.  Of  Contrast. 

§  3.    THE  METAPHOR. 

The  trope  based  on  likeness  or  resemblance  is  ex- 
tremely common.  Where  this  likeness  is  assumed,  and 
the  picture  or  comparison  is  put  directly  in  place  of  the 
thing  itself,  we  have  what  is  commonly  known  as  the 


STYLE. 


91 


metaphor.  We  do  not  state  the  resemblance  of  x  to  y  ; 
we  simply  assume  it,  and  give  x  in  terms  of  y.  Hence 
metaphor,  from  the  Greek  word  meaning  "  transfer." 
All  speech,  as  we  saw,  is  based  on  metaphor.  It  is  the 
first  of  all  tropes.  —  It  is  important  to  remember  that 
in  the  metaphor  the  comparison  and  thing  compared  are 
not  both  named,  but  only  the  former.  When  both  are 
named,  we  have  either  the  implied  or  the  stated  simile. 

The  metaphor  may  deal  with  objects;  —  may  give 
one  in  terms  of  another,  and  so  gain  in  vividness  of 
expression.  Instead  of  literal  "  sun,"  Shakspere  says 
"the  eye  of  heaven  "  ;  the  likeness  of  the  heavens  to  a 
human  countenance,  the  sun  to  a  human  eye,  is  first 
assumed,  and  then  the  more  vivid  expression  is  used 
for  the  literal.  So  in  Merck,  of  Ven.  the  stars  are 
called  "blessed  candles  of  the  night/'  Further:  "a 
forest  huge  of  spears  "  (Milton)  ;  "  the  surge  of  swords  " 
(Swinburne) ;  "  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid  " 
(Gray). 

The  metaphor  may  deal  with  a  process  or  a  situation. 
In  Keats'  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  the  taper's  "little  smoke 
in  pallid  moonshine  died."  "Died"  is  far  more  vivid 
than  "went  out."  This  sort  of  metaphor  is  very  com- 
mon in  descriptive  and  narrative  poetry.  Milton's 
Satan  "throws  his  swift  flight  in  many  an  aery  wheel"  ; 
the  gates  of  Hell  do  not  simply  give  a  jarring  noise, 
but  "grate  harsh  thunder."  In  description  of  nature, 
personification  (see  below)  plays  a  very  important  part ; 
but  metaphor  is  used  in  abundance.  Thus  the  dawn, 
sunset,  etc.,  have  given  rise  to  a  number  of  metaphors,  — 

"  .  .  .  the  golden  Orientall  gate 
Of  greatest  heaven  gan  to  open  faire."  —  Spenser. 


92  POETICS. 

Wordsworth  makes  the  sun  "  bathe  the  world  in 
light."  Moonlight  is  "silver";  rays  of  light  —  as  in 
Shelley's  Skylark — are  "arrows." 

The  commonest  metaphors,  however,  are  where 
physical  processes  in  man  are  likened  to  those  of  the 
outer  world.  This  class  is  common  in  the  drama  and 
in  lyric  poetry.  "The  tackle  of  my  heart,"  cries  King 
John,  "is  crack'd  and  burnt."    Wordsworth  says  :  — 

"  The  good  die  first, 
And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer's  dust 

Bum  to  the  socket" 

Macbeth  laments  that  his 

"  May  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf ; " 

and  in  Lear  Kent  says  :  "  I  have  years  on  my  back 
forty-eight."  Shakspere's  famous  passage  about  sleep 
{Macb.  ii.  2)  has  a  number  of  metaphors,  combined  in 
the  figure  of  Variation,  already  described  as  common 
in  our  old  poetry.  Cf.  further  his  beautiful  Sonnet  (73) 
"  That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold." 

Again,  Mental  Processes  may  be  so  treated.  Thus 
for  "  royal  anger  and  ambition,"  we  have  the  metaphor 
in  King  John  :  — 

"  Ha,  majesty,  how  high  thy  glory  towers, 
When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire." 

Or  Macb.  v.  3  :  — 

"  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow : 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And,  with  some  sweet,  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuff  d  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart?'' 


STYLE. 


93 


To  use  the  processes  of  the  outer  world  to  describe 
our  feelings  ;  to  attribute  to  natural  objects  a  person- 
ality like  our  own  :  —  these  are  the  chief  factors  of  poet- 
ical style.  The  latter  is  known  as  personification,  and 
though  a  metaphor,  deserves  separate  treatment. 

In  like  manner  with  the  above  metaphors,  we  may 
render  abstract  by  concrete.  This  is  unconsciously  done 
whenever  we  speak  of  abstract  ideas,  for  they  can  be 
expressed  only  by  concrete  words  :  such  a  case  is  the 
word  attention,  which  passes  as  abstract,  but  really 
means  a  stretching  toward.  Or  we  may  do  it  half  con- 
sciously, as  in  the  expressions  "deep  thought,"  "  cool 
determination."  But  in  poetry  we  do  it  consciously,  as 
in  the  following  :  — 

"  The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending."  —  Othello. 

"  Shake  patiently  my  great  affliction  off."  —  Lear. 

"  Mine  eternal  jewel  (i.e.  his  soul) 
Given  unto  the  common  enemy  of  man.1'  —  Macbeth. 

Sometimes  we  express  an  abstract  term  by  another 
such  term,  but  fresher,  less  used.  Thus,  instead  of  say- 
ing "O  ruined  man!"  we  may  say  (Lear)  "O  ruined 
piece  of  nature !  "  So  Shakspere  in  his  87th  sonnet, 
instead  of  the  common  terms  "  sympathy,"  "  claims  of 
affection,"  puts  it  all  in  legal  phrase  :  —  "the  charter  of 
thy  worth,"  "  bonds,"  "  patent,"  and  so  on.  Tennyson 
asks  sleep  if  it  have  "  such  credit  with  the  soul "  as  to 
make  present  the  past. 

Concrete  expressed  by  abstract  is  a  rare  metaphor 
There  are  some  classical  imitations.    Gray  says  :  — 

"  Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along,  .  .  . 
.  .  .Through  verdant  vales  and  Ceres'  golden  reign" 


94 


POETICS. 


He  means  the  fields  over  which  Ceres'  reign  extends. 
Milton  calls  Scipio  "  the  height  of  Rome  "  {Par,  Lost, 
9-  43). 

In  the  old  poem  of  Exodus,  wrongly  attributed  to 
Caedmon,  we  have  a  strikingly  bold  use  of  this  meta- 
phor. Speaking  of  the  Red  Sea  in  storm,  after  the 
drowning  of  the  Egyptians,  the  poet  says  :  "the  mighti- 
est of  sea-deaths  lash'd  the  sky."  That  is,  "the  sea, 
which  had  slain  the  Egyptians,  rose  to  the  clouds." 
This  trope  may  also  be  referred  to  Metonymy  (cf.  below). 

§  4.    THE  ABUSE  OF  METAPHORS. 

The  rhetoricians  call  the  bad  use  of  metaphors  Cata- 
chresis.  But  we  cannot  lay  down  too  positive  a  law. 
Dante  says  that  as  he  descended  into  the  second  circle 
of  hell,  "  he  came  into  a  place  mute  of  all  light,  which 
bellows  as  the  sea  does  in  a  tempest."1  Now,  at  first 
glance,  we  say  light  cannot  be  "mute";  nor,  again, 
can  a  mute  place  "bellow."  But  the  vividness  of  the 
trope,  its  splendid  effect,  "  gloriously  offend."  It  pic- 
tures admirably  the  way  in  which  that  desolation  and 
that  darkness  worked  upon  the  poet.  Furthermore,  we 
may  refer  to  another  passage  in  Dante  where  the  beast 
drives  him  back  dove  il  sol  tace,  —  "  where  the  sun  is 
silent ; "  and  we  remember  the  old  idea  that  approach- 
ing light  —  say  of  dawn —  makes  a  great  tumult.  Again, 
Hamlet's  query  whether  "  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of 
troubles  "  is  blamed  as  mixed  metaphor,  because  we  do 
not  arm  ourselves  against  the  sea.  But  how  well  the 
metaphor  pictures  the  troubles  rushing  upon  the  speaker 
from  all  sides.    It  would  be  more  correct,  but  infinitely 

1  Longfellow's  translation. 


STYLE. 


95 


less  vivid,  to  use  a  simile  in  the  second  case,  and  say 
"  to  take  arms  against  troubles  that  rush  upon  me  as  a 
sea."  But,  after  all,  it  is  a  very  safe  and  useful  rule  that 
one  should  not  "mix"  metaphors.  The  usual  example 
quoted  for  warning  is  the  couplet :  — 

"  I  bridle  in  my  struggling  muse  with  pain, 
That  longs  to  launch  into  a  nobler  strain. " 

This  assumes  a  likeness  of  the  main  object  to  objects 
that  are  themselves  mutually  incongruous.  The  pic- 
ture is  confused.  We  can  hardly  justify  Hamlet's 
"fruitful  river  of  the  eye  "  for  "tears." 

Metaphor  can  be  so  constant  as  to  be  wearisome. 
We  tire  of  a  rapid  and  ceaseless  succession  of  pictures. 
George  Chapman,  for  example,  though  a  vigorous  poet, 
is  so  full  of  "conceits"  as  to  tire  the  reader  and  mar 
the  general  effect  of  the  play  in  which  they  occur. 
Shakspere  often  yielded  to  the  intense  desire  felt  by 
his  age  for  this  piling  up  of  metaphors,  and  especially 
of  far-fetched  ones  ;  but  he  understood  the  power  of 
simple  vigor. 

Goldsmith's  distinction  is  sound, — "between  those 
metaphors  which  rise  glowing  from  the  heart,  and 
those  cold  conceits  which  are  engendered  in  the 
fancy." 

Again,  we  may  have  disgusting  details,  or  ridiculous 
associations.  Dryden,  when  a  young  man,  wrote  about 
a  nobleman  who  had  died  of  the  small-pox :  — 

"  Each  little  pimple  had  a  tear  in  it 

To  wail  the  fault  its  rising  did  commit." 

Crashaw,  the  religious  poet  of  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury, in  a  poem  on  Mary  Magdalen,  speaks  of  Christ  as 


96 


POETICS. 


"  Followed  by  two  faithful  fountains, 
Two  walking  baths,  two  weeping  motions, 
Portable  and  compendious  oceans." 1 

This  is  the  abuse  of  the  conceit.  On  lighter  themes 
the  conceit  can  be  happily  employed,  as  Carew  and 
Herrick  have  shown  us. 

Finally,  as  is  well  known,  the  poet  should  never 
mingle  metaphorical  with  literal ;  that  is,  his  image  or 
picture  should  be  complete  as  far  as  it  goes. 

§  5.  PERSONIFICATION. 

As  we  saw,  the  two  chief  factors  of  poetical  style  are 
(1)  the  Metaphor,  which  imposes  nature  on  personality, 
i.e.  describes  human  action  in  terms  of  a  natural  pro- 
Cess,  as  "his  life  ebbed  away";  and  (2)  Personification, 
which  imposes  personality  on  nature. 

In  the  metaphor  we  turn  back  to  the  vivid  and  con- 
crete force  of  early  language,  which  was  made  up  of 
pictures.  In  personification  we  turn  back  to  the  early 
belief  of  mankind,  a  belief  that  saw  personal  act  and 
motive  in  every  occurrence  of  nature.  Personification 
works  also  in  the  mental  world.  Here,  too,  we  restore 
the  old  belief,  which  was  full  of  visions  and  spiritual 
voices.  A  dream  was  a  person,  a  messenger  from  the 
gods :  cf.  the  dream  sent  to  Agamemnon,  in  the  Iliad. 
In  our  modern  poetry,  we  can  treat  the  expression 
"misfortune  overtook  him  "  as  a  personification.  With 
our  forefathers,  however,  fate  (Wyrd)  was  a  real  being : 
she  seized  a  man  unawares.  Even  a  sudden  thought 
was  a  message  from  the  gods,  then  a  messenger ;  "  it 

1  This  same  poet,  however,  made  the  line  about  Christ's  first  miracle  ; 
"  The  conscious  water  saw  her  God,  and  blushed." 


STYLE. 


97 


ran  into  his  mind/'  says  the  singer  of  Beowulf,  speaking 
of  a  sudden  determination  of  King  Hrothgar,  "  it  ran 
into  his  mind  to  build  a  banquet-hall."  Even  weapons, 
utensils,  etc.,  were  personified.  The  warrior  chid  his 
sword  for  refusing,  at  a  critical  moment,  to  "  bite." 
But  the  great  field  for  early  personification  was  nature 
and  its  processes.  Then  the  poet  believed,  now  he 
assumes,  animism  in  nature.  This  belief  was  the  main- 
spring of  mythology  ;  the  assumption  is  the  mainspring 
of  poetry.  Every  right-minded  child,  even  nowadays, 
believes  devoutly  in  that  once-upon-a-time  when  trees 
and  beasts  and  birds,  and  even  pots  and  pans,  could  talk. 

Primitive  mankind  made  its  deities  of  the  personifica- 
tions that  lay  nearest  to  it.  (Grimm.)  Violent  forces 
of  nature  were  made  gods ;  mild  and  loving  powers, 
goddesses.  Air  and  fire  —  Woden,  the  god  of  rushing 
wind,  the  storm-god;  and  the  fire-god,  the  devourer  — 
these  were,  of  course,  masculine  ;  but  earth  and  water 
were  goddesses.  Feminine,  too,  were  what  we  now  call 
the  "abstractions,"  —  Love,  Truth,  Virtue,  Fortune. 
Other  abstractions  were  Wish,  Hunger :  but  the  femi- 
nine outnumber  the  masculine.  So  we  see  that  man's 
early  worship,  like  man's  early  language,  was  an  uncon- 
scious poetry.  The  task  of  modern  poets  is  to  restore 
not  only  the  semblance,  but  also  the  spirit  of  this  old 
poetry,  and  as  far  as  possible  make  the  fields  and  woods, 
the  outer  world,  even  thoughts  and  fancies  of  the  inner 
world  as  well,  personal  and  animated.  On  a  large  scale 
this  is  done  by  such  poems  as  Wordsworth's  Ode,  where 
the  "meanest  flower  that  blows"  has  a  sympathetic 
message  ;  on  a  smaller  scale  it  is  done  by  that  trope 
which  we  call  personification. 


98 


POETICS. 


This  personification  may  be  (i)  Imperfect.  We  are 
told,  the  voice  of  Abel's  blood  cried  from  the  ground. 
That  is  an  imperfect  personification  ;  for  we  cannot 
picture  any  person.  We  simply  have  a  human  attribute 
joined  to  the  blood  ;  speech  is  lent  to  it,  but  not  a  full 
personality. 

This  attribute  may  be  either  physical  (as  above)  or 
mental.  The  vassals  of  Scyld  lay  their  lord  (Beo.  35) 
"in  the  lap  of  the  ship."  Further  (physical)  examples 
are:  "bosom  of  the  deep"  (Milton)  ;  "wide  cheeks  of 
the  air"  (Shaks.  Coriol)  ;  "Mountains  on  whose  bar- 
ren breast  the  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest"  (Milton, 
VAIL).  So  in  common  speech  we  use  personal  at- 
tributes like  back,  foot,  face,  head,  etc.,  as  applied  to 
objects.  But  often  we  can  go  directly  to  mythology  in 
these  tropes  and  need  assume  no  deliberate  personifica- 
tion. Thus,  take  Lear's  "  Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your 
cheeks  !  "  In  the  uncouth  pictures  of  the  Sacksenspie- 
gely  the  oldest  German  book  of  custom  and  law  —  com- 
posed about  1200  a.d.  —  the  winds  are  represented  by 
faces  or  heads  with  puffed  cheeks,  as  if  blowing  furi- 
ously. And  this  notion  of  the  winds  goes  back  to 
remotest  times ;  so  that  the  expression  in  Lear  is  a  bit 
of  fossil  mythology.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  no  trace 
of  the  old  weapon-personification  in  the  sarcastic  remark 
of  Gloster  when  he  has  slain  the  King  (3  Hen.  VI. 
v.  6),- 

"  See  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death." 

A  close  approach  is  made  to  full  personification  in 
King  John,  11.  1  :  — 

"  That  pale,  that  white-faced  shore, 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tide." 


STYLE. 


99 


The  attribute  may,  however,  be  not  physical,  but 
mental.  Exquisite  is  the  passage  in  Spenser's  Epitha- 
lamion :  — 

"  Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes, 
And  bless eth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes." 

The  "  happy  hands  "  is  a  most  happy  touch.  Further 
(Rom.  and  Jul.  in.  5)  :  — 

"  Look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east.'1 

The  white  rose  of  York  (1  Hen.  VI.  11.  4)  is  "  this  pale 
and  angry  rose." 

Further,  this  imperfect  personification  may  be  applied 
to  abstractions.    In  the  passage  (Macb.  v.  5)  — 

44  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day,1'  — 

we  hardly  get  the  picture  of  a  person  —  only  a  personal 
attribute,  which  illustrates  the  slow  course  of  time. 
And  the  speaker  immediately  proceeds  to  a  personifica- 
tion that  is  still  fainter  :  — 

4  4  And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  deaths 

Imperfect,  too,  is  the  personification  in  Keats'  line,  — 

44  And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old" 

and  in  Pope's,  — 

44  At  every  word  a  reputation  dies.1' 

Secondly,  we  have  Perfect  Personification,  —  and 
this,  again,  may  be  of  concrete  objects  or  of  abstract 
ideas.    In  concrete  objects  we  have  the  vast  range  of 


IOO 


POETICS. 


nature.  Often  a  complete  personification  is  undesir- 
able. Milton  is  especially  happy  in  his  description  of 
natural  forces  :  he  gives  touches  of  personality  here 
and  there,  but  leaves  a  vagueness  about  the  picture 
that  adds  greatly  to  its  power.   Thus  P.  L.  I.  174  ff. :  — 

.  .  .  "  and  the  thunder, 
Wing'd  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 
Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 
To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep." 

Still  more  powerful  is  this  vagueness  in  the  picture 
of  Superstition  in  Lucretius  (I.  62  ff.)  :  — 

"humana  .  .  .  cum  vita  jaceret 
in  terris  oppressa  gravi  sub  religione 
quae  caput  a  c<zli  regionibus  ostendebat." 

Superstition  (religio),  with  her  foot  upon  mortals, 
shows  nevertheless  her  head  from  among  the  clouds  of 
heaven.  The  suggestion  of  indefinite  vastness  and 
power  is  very  strong.  —  But  in  most  cases  we  demand 
from  the  poet  a  full  and  satisfying  personification.  We 
have  imperfect,  uncertain  personification  in  the  chang- 
ing epithets  applied  to  the  sun  by  Shakspere  in  his  33d 
Sonnet.  There  is  no  clear-cut  personality  :  it  shifts  — 
is  now  a  monarch,  now  a  lover,  now  an  alchemist. 
More  distinct  is  the  7th  Sonnet,  — "  Lo  in  the  orient 
when  the  gracious  light."  But  the  fullest  satisfaction 
is  given  by  those  passages  in  which  the  old  mythology 
flashes  forth  :  — 

44  Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops." 

—  Rom.  6°  Jul.  in.  5. 
44  But  look,  the  7norn  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o^er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill" 

—  Hamlet,  1.  1. 


STYLE. 


IOI 


"  When  the  gray-hooded  Even, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 
Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain." 

—  Milton,  Comus. 

Further,  cf.  Sidney's  sonnet  :  — 

"  With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climbst  the  skies !  " 

The  blithe  young  morning  peering  over  the  hills,  the 
sober-robed  evening,  the  wandering  moon,  —  all  are 
mythological. 

So  in  our  oldest  poetry.  In  the  Genesis  (called  the 
first  book  of  "  Caedmon  ")  we  have  such  phrases  as  "  In 
its  (the  evening's)  footsteps  ran  and  pressed  the  gloomy 
shadow,"  or  "  they  saw  the  light  stride  away!'  —  Finally 
we  must  add  to  these  natural  personifications  our 
inheritance  from  the  classic  literatures.  Greek  and 
Roman  mythology  has  left  us  a  countless  host  of  such 
tropes.  —  Modern  poets  should  use  these  with  great 
caution  ;  it  is  better  to  make  fresh  tropes.  Thus  Pope 
and  his  school  are  never  tired  of  Sol  and  Phoebus  and 
Luna.  Keats,  with  all  his  love  for  classic  beauty, 
catches  the  spirit  and  neglects  the  letter  —  as  in  his 
Isabella :  — 

"  Ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine," 

which  also  contains  a  fine  metaphor. 

Finally,  we  have  complete  personification  of  abstract 
ideas.  In  early  times,  imagination  —  the  power  to 
picture  a  definite  object  —  was  much  stronger  than  the 
intellectual  power  of  grouping  classes  and  qualities,  and 
forming  abstract  ideas.  Instead  of  scientific  classifica- 
tion of  will  and  thought  and  feeling,  early  psychology 
knew  only  a  changing  inner  world  whose  processes  it 


102 


POETICS. 


pictured  in  concrete  terms  (metaphor)  and  whose 
powers  it  personified.  We  revive  this  latter  instinct 
when  we  say  with  Lear:  u  Down,  climbing  Sorrow!" 
Further,  such  an  abstraction  as  our  word  Fate  (=that 
which  is  spoken,  irrevocable)  was  to  our  forefathers, 
under  another  name,  the  goddess  of  destiny,  Wyrd 
(=" accomplished,"  " finished").  "Wyrd  wove  me  this," 
cries  the  hero  ;  that  is,  "  here  is  my  fate."  In  the  Old- 
Saxon  (not  Anglo-Saxon)  poetical  version  of  the  gospel, 
the  He  Hand,  Christ  says  to  Judas:  "Thy  Wyrd  stands 
near  thee."  —  Even  such  an  abstract  idea  as  hunger 
was  personified,  and  was  not  felt  as  at  all  abstract. 
This  is  well  shown  by  a  passage  in  the  Genesis :  — 

"  When  from  thy  heart     hunger  or  wolf 
Soul  and  sorrow  at  the  same  time  tears." 

Observe  the  co-ordination  of  abstract  "  hunger  "  and 
concrete  "  wolf."    In  modern  poetry  we  perform  the 
process  consciously,  not  in  a  mythological  belief :  — 
' '  Methinks  it  were  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep  .  .  . 
.  .  .  And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks*, 
So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear, 
Without  corrival,  all  her  dignities.1' —  I  Hen.  IV.  I.  3. 

Examples  lie  everywhere.  Take  all  of  Collins'  Ode 
to  the  Passions.    Further  :  — 

"  Slander,  whose  whisper  .  .  ."  —  Hamlet. 
"  Strong  War  sets  hand  to  the  scythe,  and  the  furrows  take  fire 
from  his  feet."  —  Swinburne,  Erechtheus. 

§  6.  ALLEGORY. 

Allegory,  as  we  know,  is  "where  more  is  meant  than 
meets  the  ear  "  —  or  eye.    One  thinks  immediately  of 


STYLE. 


I03 


Gulliver  s  Travels,  of  the  Pilgrim  s  Progress,  or  of  the 
Faery  Queene.  That  is  in  subject-matter.  But  in  point 
of  style,  allegory  is  a  sustained  metaphor,  one  extended 
into  several  phrases  or  clauses,  so  that  we  do  not  think 
so  much  of  the  object  as  of  the  illustration.  Often,  how- 
ever, abruptness  makes  up  for  length.  Hamlet,  think- 
ing of  his  counter-plot  against  the  king  (111.  4),  says :  — 

44  For  'tis  the  sport  to  have  the  enginer 

Hoist  with  his  own  petar :  and 't  shall  go  hard, 
But  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines 
And  blow  them  at  the  moon." 

Cf.  Jul,  Cces.  11.  1  :  — 

44  'tis  a  common  proof 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder,"  &c. 

Imperfect  allegory  goes  not  quite  so  far  away  from 
the  object.  King  Philip  points  to  Arthur  (King  John, 
11.  1),  and  says  :  — 

"  Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Geffrey's  face ;  — 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of  his ; 
This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large 
Which  died  in  Geffrey ;  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  brief  into  as  huge  a  volume." 

.  Sometimes  the  allegory  is,  for  the  sake  of  clearness, 
introduced  or  ended  by  a  simile  (cf  below) ;  thus  in  the 
well-known  Epitaph  in  Croy land  Abbey  :  — 

44  Man's  life  is  like  unto  a  winter's  day. 
Some  break  their  fast,  and  so  depart  away. 
Others  stay  dinner,  then  depart  full-fed. 
The  longest  age  but  sups  and  goes  to  bed." 

There  is  a  finely  sustained  allegory  near  the  end  of 
Cowper's  Lines  on  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother  s  Picture. 


104 


POETICS. 


The  seasons  furnish  abundant  occasion  for  allegory. 
Out  of  many  examples,  we  instance  Clough's  No  More 
—  "  My  wind  has  turned  to  bitter  north,  etc."  Further, 
instead  of  a  prolonged  metaphor,  allegory  may  be  a 
prolonged  personification.  Milton  describes  the  peace 
prevailing  on  the  earth  at  Christ's  nativity,  in  an  alle- 
gorical way :  — 

"  But  he  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-ey'd  Peace,  etc." 

A  beautiful  allegory  is  contained  in  the  8oth  Psalm. 
In  fact,  metaphor  slips  easily  into  allegory.  Nai've  is 
Chaucer's  explanation  at  the  beginning  of  Book  n.  of 

Troylus  and  Cryseyde  :  — 

"  Out  of  these  blake  wawes  for  to  saylle, 

O  wynde,  O  wynde,  the  weder  gynneth  to  clere ; 
For  in  this  see  the  boot  hath  swiche  travaylle 
Of  my  connynge,  that  unneth  I  it  stere : 
This  see  clepe  I  the  tempestuous  mater e 
Of  desespeyre,  that  Troy Ims  was  inne"  .  .  . 

Like  the  simile,  allegory  was  introduced  into  our 
poetry  at  a  very  early  date.  In  the  Anglo-Saxon  Phy- 
siologns  (cf.  Ch.  I.  §  iv.),  in  the  poem  "  Christ "  (Grein's 
Bibliothek),  and  in  other  old  poems,  it  often  occurs. 
But  it  is  an  importation  from  classic  and  sacred  writ- 
ings, and  is  not  native  to  our  oldest  literature. 

§  7.    THE  SIMILE  —  IMPLIED. 

The  trope  based  on  resemblance  of  two  objects  may 
assume  that  resemblance,  as  in  metaphor,  personifica- 
tion, allegory :  in  metaphor,  the  ship  "  ploughs  the 
sea."  We  assume  that  the  action  of  a  ship  resembles 
the  action  of  a  plough.    But  when  we  name  the  action 


STYLE. 


of  the  ship,  and  then  compare  it  to  the  action  of  the 
plough,  we  have  simile.  The  likeness  may  be  stated 
frankly,  or  it  may  be  implied.  Most  writers  on  poetics 
place  the  implied  simile  under  the  head  of  metaphor. 
Thus  Nichol  (Eng.  Comp.)  says  that  "  He  fought  like  a 
lion"  is  simile;  "  He  was  a  lion  in  fight"  is  metaphor. 
Surely  the  latter  is  implied  simile.  Every  one  under- 
stands by  "was"  just  about  what  one  understands  by 
"was  like."  The  idea  of  comparison  and  likeness  is 
present  in  both  cases.  But  the  metaphor  boldly  ex- 
presses one  thing  in  terms  of  another,  does  not  place  the 
two  objects  before  the  mind.  A  simile,  then,  is  where 
two  objects  are  presented  to  the  mind  for  comparison. 

An  implied  simile  is  not  a  metaphor,  and  yet  is 
bolder  than  the  stated  simile.  It  may  be  implied  in 
several  ways.    Thus,  by  apposition :  — 

il  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome.11 —  Coriol.  v.  3. 

"  And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn.11  —  M.  for  M.  iv.  1. 

"  Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks.11  —  Keats,  Hyperion. 

44  Northumberland,  thou  ladder  wherewithal 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne.11 

—  Rich.  II.  v.  1. 

A  splendid  succession  of  comparisons,  too  long  to 
quote,  is  the  eulogy  of  England  that  Shakspere  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  the  dying  Gaunt  (Rich.  II.  11.  1)  ; 
one  is,  —  "this  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea." 

The  simile  may  be  implied  by  a  dependent  genitive 
case :  "  The  dew  of  sleep  "  ;  "The  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness"; "The  nunnery  of  your  chaste  breast."  Here 


io6 


POETICS. 


note  particularly  that  the  two  nouns  are  co-ordinates. 
"  Dew"  and  "  sleep  "  are  co-ordinate,  of  equal  value, — 
comparison  and  compared.  Different  would  be  the  case 
with  such  an  expression  as  —  "  the  quiet  of  sleep," 
where  "  quiet  "  is  simply  a  part  or  quality  of  "  sleep." 
Further  cf.  "In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge" 
(2  Hen.  IV  in.  1). 

More  distant  is  the  implying  by  means  of  adjectives : 
"  Passionate,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  pro- 
found" (Tennyson,  Maud)  ;  "Golden  sleep";  "This 
working-day  world." — There  are  many  other  ways  of 
implying  likeness.  For  instance  (Merck,  of  Ven.  11.  5), 
"But  stop  my  house's  ears  —  I  mean  my  casements." 
Then,  approaching  the  stated  simile,  we  have  the  con- 
nection of  comparison  and  compared  by  the  "copula" 
is  or  are :  — 

"  He  is  the  brooch  indeed 
And  gem  of  all  the  nations.""  — Hamlet. 

"  A  jewel  in  a  ten  times  barred-up  chest 
Is  a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. "  —  Rish.  II. 

"  Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes."  ■ — S.  Daniel. 

Other  equivalents  of  is  or  are  may  be  mentioned 
besides  the  one  from  Merck,  of  Ven.  just  given  :  — 

"  Then  her  voice's  music,  —  call  it 
The  well's  bubbling,  the  bird's  warble."  —  R.  Browning. 
"  The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return." 

—  Rich.  II.  1.  6. 

With  a  gesture  Cleopatra  implies  the  comparison,  as 
she  points  to  the  asp  on  her  bosom,  and  asks  (A.  and  C. 
v.  2)  :  — 

"  Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ?  " 


STYLE. 


107 


§8.    THE  SIMILE  — STATED. 

This  marks  the  extreme  stage  of  the  trope  based  on 
likeness.  In  development,  the  metaphor  precedes  the 
simile.  The  former  can  rest  on  a  picturesque  confu- 
sion of  names1  —  as  in  calling  the  bird's  nest  his 
" house"  :  so  Tennyson,  speaking  of  the  vanished 
inmate  of  a  sea-shell,  asks  :  "  Did  he  stand  at  the  dia- 
mond door  of  his  hotise?"  Our  early  poetry  is  full  of 
this  metaphor;  it  calls  the  sky  "  the  people-m?/*,"  the 
sea  "  foamy  fields"  and  so  on.  All  that  was  required 
was  a  common  quality,  and  the  immediate  substitution 
of  one  object  for  another.  Hence  a  great  confusion, 
"mixing"  of  metaphors,  as  when  the  "mouth"  (sc. 
dooi)  of  the  ark  is  "locked."  Much  more  art,  more 
balance,  is  needed  to  pause  in  the  current  of  poetry  and 
hold  two  objects  apart,  painting  carefully  the  details  of 
the  comparison,  then  returning  to  the  main  subject  and 
proceeding  quietly  with  the  interrupted  narration.  This 
demands  a  higher  poetic  faculty,  a  more  analytic,  self- 
contained  faculty.  Hence  the  superiority,  in  point  of 
style,  of  the  Homeric  poems  over  our  old  English  epos. 
The  former  are  famous  for  their  sustained  similes  ;  the 
latter  has  scarcely  a  simile  worthy  of  the  name,  setting 
aside,  of  course,  the  later  poems,  where  classical  and 
sacred  models  now  begin  to  exert  their  influence.  We 
are,  therefore,  not  surprised  to  learn  that  Lessing,  the 
experienced  man  of  letters  and  brilliant  critic,  disliked, 
as  a  poet,  the  metaphor,  and  used  in  preference  the  sim- 

1  Goldsmith  ("  Essay  on  the  Use  of  Metaphors  ")  calls  metaphor  "a  kind 
of  magical  coat  by  which  the  same  idea  assumes  a  thousand  different 
appearances. " 


io8 


POETICS. 


ile.  Hegel  notes  that  the  simile  is  essentially  oriental, 
the  metaphor  occidental.  The  simile  came  into  our 
literature  through  the  influence  of  Latin  models  and  the 
love  of  sacred  literature  for  allegory.  The  Bible  is 
very  fond  of  similes  :  "As  the  hart  panteth  after  the 
water-brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  thee,  O  God  !  " 
But  our  primitive  poetry  ventured,  at  the  best,  only 
on  such  a  timid  flight  as  when  it  says  that  the  ship 
glides  over  the  water  "most  like  a  bird"  (fugle  geltcost). 
This  fact,  that  the  simile  stands  on  a  higher  plane  of 
poetical  development  than  the  metaphor,  must  be  borne 
in  mind  when  one  is  told  that  the  metaphor  is  a  "  con- 
densed "  simile.  //  is  so  logically ;  not,  however,  chron- 
ologically. 

The  simile  may  be  stated  positively  :  — 

"  Like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet." 

"  Ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks.-1  —  Keats. 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light.*"  —  Suckling. 

The  simile,  being  a  formal  comparison,  should  not 
state  the  familiar  and  obvious.  The  poet  must  give  us 
an  unexpected,  yet  fit  and  beautiful  comparison.  In 
general  effect,  the  two  things  compared  should  be  as 
unlike  as  possible,  so  that  the  one  common  trait  shall 
gain  in  intensity  from  the  general  contrast.  This  is 
finely  brought  out  in  a  passage  of  Browning's  Para- 
celsus :  — 

"  Over  the  waters  in  the  vaporous  west 
The  sun  goes  down  as  in  a  sphere  of  gold, 


STYLE. 


Behind  the  outstretched  city,  which  between, 
With  all  that  length  of  domes  and  minarets, 
Athwart  the  splendor,  black  and  crooked  runs 
Like  a  Turk  verse  along  a  scimetar"  ; 

See,  too,  the  deposed  Richard's  famous  simile  of  the 
well  and  buckets,  Rich.  II.  iv.  I. 

The  simile  may  be  stated  as  a  negative,  or  in  degrees 
of  comparison.    This  adds  emphasis  :  — 

"  The  sea  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf, 
.    .    .    .    as  we  to  keep  this  city.1' 

—  King  John,  u.  2. 

"  O  Spartan  dog, 
More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea ! " 

—  Othello,  v.  2. 

"  That  she  may  feel 
How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child.'1  — Lear,  11.  4. 

The  simile  best  fits  the  stately  motion  of  epic  poetry. 
A  short  simile  is  used  with  great  effect  in  lyric  poetry, 
or  the  drama ;  but  when  it  is  sustained  and  carried  into 
detail,  it  is  out  of  place  in  these,  and  belongs  to  the 
epic.  So  we  find  the  famous  Homeric  similes  of  a  most 
elaborate  finish  ;  cf.  that  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  book 
of  the  Iliad.  In  English,  Milton  has  best  followed  this 
path.    The  fallen  angels  stand  (P.  L.  1.  612  ff.)  — 

"  Their  glory  withered.    As  when  Heaven's  fire 
Hath  scath'd  the  forest  oaks,  or  mountain  pines,* 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth  though  bare 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.'' 

More  like  the  Homeric  simile  and  longer— too  long 
to  quote  —  are  such  as  that  (P.  L.  111.)  where  Satan,  as 
he  looks  down  on  the  world,  is  compared  to  a  military 


I  IO 


POETICS. 


scout.  The  Sonnet  often  makes  an  elaborate  simile  in 
its  octave,  then  in  the  sestette  draws  the  moral  or  shows 
the  application.  So,  too,  the  Epigram,  as  in  the  stanza 
by  Waller,  given  below. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  a  mere  instance  is  not 
a  simile :  — 

"  Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen,  ftr^ d  another  Troy" 

Nevertheless,  the  simile  is  often  combined  with  Allu- 
sion. Thus  the  poet  takes  for  granted  our  knowledge 
of  classical  mythology  when  he  says  that  Portia's 

"  Sunny  locks 

Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 

Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos1  strand, 

And  many  Jasons  come  in  search  of  her."" 

The  simile  may  be  stated  in  words  equivalent  to 
"like"  or  "as":  — 

"It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me." 

—  All's  Well 

Or  take  Wallers  conceit :  — 

' '  The  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 

Which  on  the  shaft  that  saw  him  die, 
Espied  a  feather  of  his  own 
Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  so  high." 


The  great  similes  of  classic  poetry  find  frequent  imi- 
tation. Thus  we  may  trace  one  simile  (of  dead  leaves 
falling  in  frosty  weather)  from  Chaucer  (Troilus,  4.  29) 
back  to  Dante  (Inferno,  3.  112),  and  from  him  to  Vergil 
(JEn.  6.  309). 


STYLE. 


Ill 


§  9.    TROPES  OF  CONNEXION. 

One  expression  is  here  used  for  another  on  the  basis 
not  of  resemblance ',  but  of  connexion,  or  association.  In 
the  former  (resemblance),  two  things  may  be  sundered 
in  space  and  in  thought ;  yet  a  common  quality,  a  like- 
ness in  one  point,  may  allow  one  to  be  used  for  the 
other :  e.g.,  "her  roses  "  for  "her  cheeks,"  because  both 
are  red,  or  "rosy."  But  when  we  say  :  "the  bottle  will 
be  his  death,"  we  see  no  likeness  between  what  we  say 
and  what  we  mean  (the  liquor)  ;  but  we  do  see  a  con- 
nexion. The  two  are  associated  in  space  as  containing 
and  contained :  therefore  we  use  one  for  the  other. 
Connexion  in  space  is  sometimes  called  mathematical ; 
connexion  in  thought,  logical. 

When  one  thing  is  put  for  another  on  account  of 
connexion  in  space,  we  have  the  trope  called  Synec- 
doche;  the  word  means  to  understand  one  thing  by 
another.  It  is  mainly  based  on  the  relation  of  whole  to 
parts.    Thus  a  part  is  taken  for  the  whole. 

' '  That  cursed  head 
Whose  wicked  deed."  —  Hamlet. 

Here  "  man  "  is  meant. 

"  Cheeks  of  sorry  grain  will  serve  to  ply 
The  sampler."  —  Comus. 

In  the  next  example,  a  singular  proper  noun  expresses 
the  collective  idea  of  "  nation  "  ;  note  the  plural  pro- 
noun :  — 

"  The  Spaniard,  tied  by  blood  and  favour  to  her, 
Must  now  confess,  if  they  have  any  goodness,"  etc. 

—  Hen.  VIII.  11.  2. 


I  12 


POETICS. 


A  favorite  use  of  this  trope  among  our  Germanic 
forefathers  was  to  take  some  striking  part  of  an  action 
and  use  it  instead  of  the  general  expression.  Instead 
of  saying  "they  went  ashore,"  the  poet  of  Beowulf  puts 
it  thus  :  "They  bore  their  armor  to  the  strand."  The 
vividness  of  the  picture  is  much  increased.  A  fine 
modern  use  of  this  is  in  Marc  Antony's  famous  speech 
about  Brutus  and  the  others  "whose  daggers  have 
stabbed  Coesar"  How  infinitely  stronger  this  is  than 
"  murdered,"  any  one  can  see.  So  our  forefathers  did 
not  simply  "sail";  they  "drove  the  keel  over  the  sea- 
street!' 

Similar  to  this  trope  is  Distribution.  Instead  of 
simply  naming  the  whole  action  or  thing,  one  part  after 
the  other  is  named  in  detail.  Instead  of  "They  shall 
nevermore  come  to  their  homes  at  evening,"  the  poet 
says  :  — 

"  For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knee,  the  envied  kiss  to  share." 

See  also  the  ghost's  picture  of  Hamlet's  abhorrence 
at  the  tale  that  might  be  told,  — 

"  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,"  etc.  — Hamlet,  i.  5. 

Another  similar  trope,  known  as  Periphrase,  puts  a 
certain  prominent  habit  for  the  thing  or  person 
meant  :  — 

"  Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep." 

—  Par.  Lost,  5.  200  f. 


STYLE. 


113 


"The  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 
And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes." 

—  Tennyson,  In  Mem. 
"  Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod  "  =  Newfoundland. 

—  Burns,  Twa  Dogs. 

The  above  substituted  part  for  whole.  We  may  also 
have  whole  for  part.  As  "the  Spaniard"  was  used  for 
Spain,  or  all  Spaniards,  so  conversely,  the  whole  coun- 
try is  used  for  its  monarch.  This  is  common  in  Shaks- 
pere.  "  Good  Hamlet,"  says  the  queen,  "let  thine  eye 
look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark"  —  meaning  Claudius, 
king  of  Denmark.  So,  too,  in  King  John,  Faulcon- 
bridge's  pun,  when  Hubert  lifts  the  dead  body  of 
Arthur,  rightful  heir  to  the  crown  :  — 

"  How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up  ! " 

Material  is  used  for  thing  made. 

"  Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds."  —  Par,  Lost,  1. 

Our  old  poets  were  fond  of  this  trope  :  "  curve-necked 
wood"  for  "ship";  "  glee-beam,"  or  "  glee-wood,"  for 
"harp";  and  many  more.  Wolsey  says  (Hen.  VIII.)  he 
will  "sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble."  —  "Not  to  taste  that 
only  tree"  i.e.  fruit  of  the  tree  (Par.  Lost,  4.  423). 

Finally,  one  object  is  put  for  another  connected  with 
it  in  space.    This  is  not  like  the  case  of  part  for  whole, 
since  the  two  objects  are  separable.    Thus  :  — 
"  Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy." 

*  *  For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors."  —  Merch.  Ven.  1.  1. 

Logical  Association.  —  This  relation  is  that  of 
cause  and  effect,  substance  and  attribute,  and  all  such 


H4 


POETICS. 


as  are  grasped,  not  by  the  senses,  but  by  thought. 
The  trope  is  called  Metonymy,  —  change  of  names.  In 
the  Anglo-Saxon  Genesis  we  are  told  that  "  God  created 
for  the  false  ones  groans  of  hell"  i.e.  pains  that  would 
cause  groans.  "  Savage  clamor  drowned  both  harp  and 
voice" — sound  of  the  harp  {Par.  Lost).  "I  know  the 
hand"  quibbles  Lorenzo,  when  he  sees  Jessica's  letter 
{Merck,  of  Ven.) :  "in  faith,  'tis  a  fair  hand."  So  Hen. 
VIII.  ii.  3:  — 

"  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow.'1'' 

Prince  Henry  calls  the  crown  a  "polish'd  perturba- 
tion,"—  cause  of  perturbation  ;  and  the  Dirge  in  Cymbe- 
line  tells  us  that 

"  The  sceptre,  learning,  physic  must 
All  follow  this  and  come  to  dust," 

a  case  of  attribute  and  symbol  instead  of  substance. 

Quality  for  person  or  thing :  "  To  fawn  on  rage  " 
=  raging  man  (Rich.  II.  v.  1).  "  Bondage  is  hoarse" 
{R.  and  J.).  "When  thus  the  angelic  Virtue  answered 
mild,"  =  virtuous  angel  {Par.  Lost). 

So,  too,  relations  of  time :  — 

"  Nor  wanting  is  the  brown  October  drawn 
Mature  and  perfect,  from  his  dark  retreat 
Of  thirty  years." — Thomson. 

"  And  on  her  (sc.  the  table's)  ample  square  from  side  to  side 
All  Autumn  piled."  —  Par.  Lost,  5.  391. 

§  IO.    TROPES  OF  CONTRAST. 

In  order  to  express  something  in  a  very  forcible  way, 
we  can  use  a  phrase  entirely  unexpected,  making  a 


STYLE. 


115 


sharp  contrast  with  the  literal  statement.  It  does  not 
deceive  the  reader ;  it  simply  draws  his  attention,  as 
by  a  violent  gesture,  to  the  real  object. 

1.  Hyperbole.  —  This  trope  (the  word  means  to  "cast 
beyond  ")  states  a  fact  in  words  that  we  know  to  be 
impossible  or  extremely  improbable.  It  shows  that  we 
must  believe  as  far  as  we  can  in  the  direction  indicated. 
"  Countless  houses  "  is  a  term  by  which  we  understand 
houses  so  numerous  that  it  would  be  very  difficult  to 
count  them,  or  would  take  a  long  time.  The  hyperbole 
is  common  in  all  speech.    In  poetry  it  is  also  abundant. 

' '  I  was  all  ear, 
And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death."  —  Comus. 

"  Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 

Clean  from  my  hand?    No  :  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  sea  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green  one  red.1'  —  Macbeth. 

"  When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye."  —  Lovelace,  To  Althea. 

Hyperbole  easily  degenerates  into  rant.  Shakspere 
intentionally  ridicules  this  in  Hamlet's  wild  speech  at 
Ophelia's  grave.  Unintentionally,  Lee,  the  tragedian, 
rants  in  his  well-known  passage  :  — 

"  Pouring  forth  tears  at  such  a  lavish  rate, 

That  were  the  world  on  fire,  they  might  drown 
The  wrath  of  heaven,  and  quench  the  mighty  ruin." 

This,  as  Blair  remarks,  is  "mere  bombast."  But  a 
slight  step  makes  the  trope  forcible  in  Macbeth's  ner- 
vous words  :  — 

"  Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind." 


u6 


POETICS. 


The  hyperbole,  as  Lord  Kaims  pointed  out,  must  not 
contain  an  absurd  and  contradictory  statement.  On 
this  ground  we  condemn  Pope's  couplet :  — 

"  When  first  young  Maro  in  his  boundless  mind 
A  work  f  outlast  immortal  Rome  designed." 

2.  Litotes. — This  is  the  opposite  of  the  hyperbole. 
It  understates.  It  stops  far  short  of  the  actual  truth. 
We  feel  the  sharp  contrast  between  the  insufficient 
statement  and  the  literal  fact,  and  we  hasten  to  do  the 
subject  right  and  justice.  Thus  Chaucer,  describing  a 
fat,  jolly,  rosy,  ease-loving  monk,  says  :  — 

"  He  was  not  pale  as  a  forpyned  gost." 

So  in  Par.  Lost:  — 

"  Whereof  in  Hell 
Fame  is  not  silent." 

3.  Euphemism.  — There  are  certain  forms  of  religion 
in  low  stages  of  culture  where  the  good  gods  are  neg- 
lected —  they  will  do  no  harm  —  and  the  bad  gods  are 
overwhelmed  with  gifts  and  flattery.  To  these  are 
given  good  names  :  the  wish  is  father  to  the  thought,  — 
they  are  called  good  in  hopes  that  they  will  be  good. 
Even  the  Greek  word  Eumenides  was  given  to  the 
Furies,  who,  as  ^Eschylus  tells  us,  spoil  the  growing 
corn  and  fruit.  There  are  similar  names  in  our  own 
mythology.  Now  this  same  spirit  crops  out  in  the  dis- 
guise of  modern  Euphemism.  This  term  ("  speaking 
well  of")  is  applied  to  that  trope  which,  in  contrast  to 
the  literal  badness  of  the  object,  gives  it  a  good  name. 
In  exalted  style,  we  use  Euphemism  for  harmful,  de- 
structive things ;  in  familiar  style,  for  disagreeable 
things.    Especially  is  it  used  of  death. 


STYLE. 


117 


"  How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest !  "  —  Collins. 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well."  —  Macbeth. 

"  Ah,  Warwick,  Montague  hath  breathed  his  last." 

For  the  second  case,  in  Hamlet  (11.  1),  instead  of 
"  intoxicated  "  we  have  the  polite  "dertook."  Cf.  such 
colloquial  and  rather  vulgar  expressions  as  "  appropri- 
ated" for  plain  "  stolen." 

4.  Irony.  —  The  contrast  here  consists  in  our  believ- 
ing the  opposite  of  what  is  said.  Irony  may  be  light, 
almost  harmless,  as  in  Sterne ;  merciless  and  biting,  as 
in  Swift.    Poetically  it  is  often  used :  — 

"  Go  teach  eternal  wisdom  how  to  rule." 

"  Enjoy  the  thoughts  that  rise 
From  disappointed  avarice, 
From  frustrated  ambition." 

"Now  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,"  says  Hamlet 
to  Yorick's  skull,  "and  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch 
thick,  to  this  favour  she  must  come ;  make  her  laugh 
at  that!'  A  most  admirable  example  of  compliment 
shading  into  irony,  and  irony  into  bitter  sarcasm,  is 
Marc  Antony's  speech  about  the  "  honorable  men." 
Finally,  we  get  the  plain  statement  with  the  word 
"  traitors." 

In  epic  poetry,  irony  alternates  with  direct  abuse,  — 
as  in  speeches  of  warriors  about  to  fight.  So  Gabriel 
calls  Satan  "  courageous  chief." 


Il8  POETICS. 


CHAPTER  V.  — FIGURES. 

The  terms  Trope  and  Figure  have  often  been  con- 
fused. Metaphors  are  called  "figurative"  language,  and 
Trope  is  often  just  as  loosely  understood.  But  the  dis- 
tinction is  useful  and  just.  A  trope  deals  with  the 
expressions  themselves  ;  a  figure,  with  their  relations 
and  arrangement. 

Figures  may  be  based  on  Repetition,  on  Contrast,  or 
on  Combination. 

§  I.    FIGURES  OF  REPETITION. 

The  repetition  of  certain  relations  of  sounds  is,  as  we 
shall  see,  the  basis  of  metre ;  there  is  also  a  harmony 
and  poetic  effect  gained  by  repetition  of  words  and 
phrases. 

i.  Iteratioji. — Single  words  are  repeated.  This  is 
very  common  in  dirges  and  in  passages  expressive  of 
deep  emotion.  The  tendency  is  to  dwell  on  one  name 
or  thought.  Lycidas  is  very  remarkable  in  this  re- 
spect :  — 

"  For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  weep  for  Lycidas  ? " 

The  poem  is  full  of  such  iteration. 

So  in  Paradise  Lost:  "  though  fall'n  on  evil  times, 
On  evil  times  though  fall'n  and  evil  tongues."  The 
strong  passion  and  wonder  of  Hamlet  find  expression 
by  dwelling  on  two  words  :  — 


Figures.  rig 

"  Oh  villain,  villain,  smiling,  damned  villain ! 
My  tables  —  meet  it  is  I  set  it  down 
That  one  may  smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain." 

For  sacred  poetry,  see  the  song  of  Deborah,  Judges  v. 
26-28. 

Without  any  reference  to  emotion,  iteration  is  used 
for  the  harmony  of  verse. 

"  Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet." 

44  See  golden  days  fruitful  of  golden  deeds. " 

Both  are  from  Paradise  Lost.  Milton  thoroughly 
understood  such  cadences  and  harmonies.  More  in- 
volved iteration  is  seen  in  the  following  :  — 

44  Increasing  store  with  loss  and  loss  with  store." 

44  Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide." 

Or  George  Puttenham's  example  :  — 

44  Much  must  he  be  beloved  that  loveth  much ; 
Feare  many  must  he  needs,  whom  many  feare." 

In  these  latter  examples  we  find  antithesis  also.  Cf. 
§  3  of  this  chapter. 

2.  This  iteration  may  vary  the  application  of  the 
word. 

44  Treason  doth  never  prosper.    What's  the  reason? 
If  it  doth  prosper,  none  dare  call  it  treason." 

44  When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done ; 
For  I  have  more."  —  Donne. 

44  And  every  fair  from  fair  sometimes  declines."  —  Shakspere. 

44  How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  beauty's  self."  —  Keats. 


120 


POETICS. 


3.  Finally,  this  becomes  word-play.  So  Antony, 
when  he  looks  upon  the  body  of  Caesar,  cries  out :  — 

"  Here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave  hart; 
Here  didst  thou  fall.  .  .  . 
O  world !  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart ; 
And  this  indeed,  O  world  !  the  heart  of  thee." 

Thence  we  come  to  the  regular  pun.  The  prince  of 
pun-makers  in  verse  is,  of  course,  Thomas  Hood. 
Where  the  pun  is  confined  to  one  word,  as  is  usual,  it 
is  not  an  example  of  repetition.    But  otherwise  with 

"  They  went  and  told  the  sexton, 
And  the  sexton  tolled  the  bell.'" 

4.  Whole  sentences  are  repeated.  The  arrangement 
and  matter  are  generally  the  same,  but  the  expression 
is  slightly  changed.  This  figure  is  called  Parallelism. 
It  is  very  common  in  the  Bible  and  in  our  Anglo- 
Saxon  poetry :  — 

"  The  voice  of  the  Lord  is  upon  the  waters; 
The  God  of  glory  thundereth.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  The  voice  of  the  Lord  breaketh  the  cedars ; 
Yea,  the  Lord  breaketh  the  cedars  of  Lebanon." 

In  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  this  figure  is  combined  with 
the  trope  of  Variation.  An  example  from  Milton  of 
Parallelism,  though  with  order  reversed  for  metrical 
reasons,  is  the  beginning  of  the  Morning  Hymn  {Par. 
Lost,  5.  153)  :  — 

"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair." 


FIGURES. 


121 


§  2.    FIGURES  OF  CONTRAST. 

Here  the  arrangement  is  different  from  the  expected 
and  ordinary  arrangement.  Hence,  through  surprise,  a 
stronger  impression.  Thus,  we  usually  speak  of  an 
absent  person  or  thing  in  the  third  person.  If  we 
suddenly  address  it  in  the  second  person,  as  if  it  were 
present,  we  have  Apostrophe. 

i.  Apostrophe.  —  Literally,  this  means  a  turning  away 
from  something.  Quintilian  says  its  origin  was  in  the 
custom  of  orators,  pleading  in  court,  who  were  wont  to 
turn  from  the  judge  and  suddenly  address  some  one 
else.  Cicero,  as  we  know,  was  pleading  for  Ligarius, 
when  unexpectedly  he  broke  off  his  argument  and 
turned  to  the  accuser,  who  was  present,  saying :  —  "  Quid 
enim,  Tubero,  tuus  ille  destrictus  in  acie  Pharsalica 
gladius  agebat  ? " 

This  stricter  sort  of  apostrophe  abounds  in  poetry. 

"  Within  a  month,  — 
Let  me  not  think  onH  —  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  — 
A  little  month,"  etc. 

In  a  wider  sense,  apostrophe  is  any  case  where  an 
absent  person  or  thing  is  addressed  as  if  present. 
Banquo,  in  his  soliloquy,  turns  to  Macbeth  as  if  the 
latter  were  present  :  — 

"  Thou  hast  it  now,  King,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all 
As  the  weird  women  promised  ;  and  I  fear 
Thou  playcTst  most  foully  for  it." 

So  Macbeth,  about  to  murder  Duncan,  who  sleeps  in 
another  room,  hears  the  bell  ring,  and  cries  :  — 

"  Hear  it  not,  Duncan !  " 


122 


POETICS. 


The  figure  is  used  also  of  things  :  — 

"  Hold,  hold,  my  heart; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up."  —  Hamlet. 

2.  Apostrophe  was  a  change  of  person.  We  may 
also  have  a  change  of  number.  For  singular,  we  have 
the  plural.  Such  is  the  "  royal  '  we.'  "  So  the  ordinary 
second-person  plural  is  now  used  altogether  for  the 
older  "thou." 

3.  The  change  may  be  in  tense.  Present  is  used  for 
past,  —  the  historical  present.  Events  are  narrated  as 
if  taking  place  before  the  eye. 

"  Behind  the  arras  hearing  something  stir, 
H1  whips  out  his  rapier,  cries  *  A  rat,  a  rat !' 
And  in  this  brainish  apprehension,  kills 
The  unseen  good  old  man.'"  —  Hamlet,  iv.  1. 

This  figure  is  effectually  used  in  The  Cotter  s  Saturday 
Night  of  Burns.  —  Present  may  be  used  for  future.  So 
in  ordinary  talk:  "I  go  away  to-morrow."  In  poetry 
we  have  such  pronounced  examples  as  (Ham.  v.)  :  — 

"  Horatio,  I  am  dead] 
Thou  livest ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright." 

4.  The  speaker  describes  an  absent  thing,  not  in  the 
second  person,  indeed,  as  in  apostrophe,  but  as  if  it  were 
present,  though  the  third  person  is  retained.  The 
speaker  seems  to  see  the  thing.  Hence  the  figure  is 
called  Vision.  Famous  are  the  stanzas  in  Childe  Har- 
old, beginning 

"  I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie." 

In  Gray's  Bard,  in  Pope's  Messiah,  are  fine  examples 
of  continued  Vision.    Naturally,  the  figure  is  not  re- 


FIGURES. 


123 


strictecl  to  what  one  sees.  The  poet  looks  upon  the 
rows  of  muskets  in  an  arsenal  and  "  hears  even  now 
the  infinite  fierce  chorus/'  that  has  been  sung  in  all 
ages  by  the  voices  of  war.  —  In  imperative  form,  this 
figure  is  very  common.  The  Nativity  Hymn  affords 
an  example  :  — 

"See  how  from  far  .  .  .  the  star-led  wizards  haste.11 

5.  Instead  of  the  simple  order  of  words,  as  we  natu- 
rally form  any  proposition,  with  subject,  predicate,  and 
so  on,  some  other  order  is  adopted.  This  is  just  as 
familiar  to  prose  as  to  poetry.  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians"  is  infinitely  more  forcible  than  "  Diana  of 
the  Ephesians  is  great." 

But  in  poetry  there  is  far  greater  freedom  of  inver- 
sion and  involution  than  in  prose.  The  imitators  of 
Milton  found  it  easy  to  make  up  a  quasi  Miltonic  style, 
simply  by  scattering  inverted  constructions  broadcast 
through  the  verses.  But  Milton  could  be  simple  and 
direct  when  there  was  need  for  naked  force  :  — 

"  He  called  so  loud  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  Hell  resounded.11 

On  the  other  hand,  take  that  description  of  the  gate  of 
lost  paradise  :  — 

"  With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms.11 

In  neither  case  can  we  change  without  infinite  loss. 

There  is  one  poetical  inversion,  however,  that  needs 
special  notice.  Besides  such  cases  as  Abbott  (Skaksper. 
Gram.  §  423)  notices,  e.g.,  "thy  cause  of  distemper"  for 
"  the  cause  of  thy  distemper,"  we  have  inversions  like 

"  The  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief 


124 


POETICS. 


Goldsmith  means  "  manliness  of  silent  grief."  So 
Tennyson's  Princess  moves  to  the  window  "  Robed  in 
the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,"  i.e.,  "  deep  night  of 
her  long  hair."  When  Milton  speaks  of  "  flowering 
odors  "  he  means  "  odorous  flowers"  ;  and  a  somewhat 
similar  figure  is,  "The  flowing  gold  oi  her  loose  tresses," 
unless  we  take  it  as  implied  simile. 

Shakspere  is  fond  of  this  construction  :  cf.  Son.  77  : 
"by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth"  =  stealthy  shade. 

6.  Almost  touching  the  trope  Hyperbole,  is  a  figure 
in  which  the  statement  taken  as  literal  grammatical 
construction  is  impossible,  but  in  loose  construction  is 
possible  and  intelligible. 

"  Adam,  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born, 
His  sons,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve." 

—  Par.  Lost,  4.  323  f. 

"  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee."  —  Macbeth,  v.  7. 

"  So  these  two  brothers  with  their  murdered  man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence." —  Keats,  Isabella. 

In  the  last  example,  the  meaning  is  '  the  man  whom 
they  were  about  to  murder.'  This  anticipation,  or 
Prolepsis,  can  be  a  mere  matter  of  grammar,  not  of 
sense.    Thus  in  Byron's  Giaour:  — 

"  These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own." 

Shakspere  often  used  this  figure  :  "  What  is  infirm 
from  your  sound  parts  shall  fly"  (All's  Well,  11.  1)  ; 
what  is  infirm  will  fly,  and  the  part  thereby  become 
sound. 

7.  Instead  of  the  kind  of  sentence  that  we  expect,  we 
find  some  other :  as  a  question  instead  of  a  statement. 


FIGURES. 


125 


"Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes,"  asks  Shylock,  "hath  not  a 
Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  pas- 
sions ? "  This  is  stronger  than  the  statement,  "  A  Jew 
hath  eyes,"  etc. 

"  Am  I  not,  am  I  not  here  alone?  "  —  Tennyson,  Maud. 

"Is  it  not  monstrous  that  this  player  here 
But  in  a  fiction,"  etc.  —  Hamlet. 

We  expect  an  affirmative  answer  to  these.  Otherwise 
with 

"  Lives  there  who  loves  his  pain?  "  —  Par.  Lost,  4.  888. 

8.  The  Parenthesis  is  common  everywhere. 

"  For  I  this  night 
(Such  night  till  this  I  never  passed)  have  dreamed, 
If  dreamed,1''  etc. — Par.  Lost,  5.  30. 

9.  Finally,  the  most  abrupt  contrast  arises  when  the 
construction  comes  suddenly  to  an  end,  is  broken  off 
violently,  and  a  new  sentence  begins  in  a  new  direc- 
tion. The  famous  Vergilian  example  is  where  Neptune 
rebukes  the  winds,  and  begins  to  threaten,  but  leaves 
the  threat  unfinished  :  — 

"  Quos  ego  —  sed  motos  praestat  componere  fluctus." 

"  Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have  done? " 

—  Lycidas. 

"  But  her  eyes  — 

How  could  he  see  to  do  them?" 

—  Merck,  of  Ven.  ill.  2. 

§  3.    FIGURES  OF  COMBINATION. 

Here  the  effect  is  made  by  the  arrangement  and 
mutual  relations  of  the  different  parts  of  the  sentence. 


126 


POETICS. 


There  is  no  repetition  ;  there  is  no  turning  from  the 
proper  tense  or  number  ;  but  the  joining  of  the  parts 
differs  from  that  of  common  speech. 

i.  Chief  of  these  figures  is  Antithesis.  Two  expres- 
sions are  placed  in  close  relation,  so  that  each  throws 
the  other  into  strong  relief.  Sometimes  we  have  two 
verses ;  sometimes  the  antithesis  is  shut  in  a  single 
verse.  In  prose,  the  figure  should  be  sparingly  used ; 
a  case  of  undue  abundance  is  John  Lyly's  Euphues  and 
his  England  (i 579)  which  riots  in  antithesis  and  allit- 
eration. But  sparingly  used,  antithesis  has  a  pleasant 
effect.    Keats  says  {Endymion)  he  will 

44 .  .  .  Stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing." 

"  Have  eyes  to  wonder  but  lack  tongues  to  praise.'1 

—  Shakspere,  Sonnet. 

"  And  my  large  kingdom  for  a  little  grave.,, 

—  Richard  II.  m.  4. 

"  His  back  was  turned,  but  not  his  brightness  hid.,, 

—  Par.  Lost,  3.  624. 

44  Saw  undelighted  all  delight."  —  Par.  Lost,  4.  286. 

44  New  laws  from  him  who  reigns  new  minds  may  raise 
In  us  who  serve."  —  Par.  Lost,  5.  680. 

This  figure  was  carried  to  excess  in  the  formal  poetry 
of  Dryden  and  Pope.  Still  the  theme  may  often  excuse 
the  figure.    So  in  Pope's  masterpiece  :  — 

44  Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
If  she  inspire  and  he  approve  my  lays.1' 

Pope  is  very  fond  of  parallel  constructions :  — 

44  Hang  o'er  the  box  and  hover  round  the  ring.,, 

44  When  music  softens  and  when  dancing  fires." 


FIGURES.  127 

"  On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore 
Which  Jews  might  kiss  and  infidels  adore.11 

So  Dr.  Johnson  :  — 

"  All  Marlborough  hoarded  or  all  Villiers  spent.11 

Dryden  :  — 

44  He  had  his  wit  and  they  had  his  estate.11 

Prior :  — 

"  If  His  not  sense,  at  least  His  Greek.11 

44  They  never  taste  who  always  drink : 
They  always  talk  who  never  think.11 

So  Swift  and  many  other  poets  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury. 

Another  use  of  the  antithesis  is  to  sharpen  satire. 
It  brings  incongruous  things  together  as  if  they  were 
congruous.    Pope  :  — 

44  Forget  her  prayers  or  miss  a  masquerade.'1 
44  Or  lose  her  heart  or  necklace  at  a  ball.11 
Another  use  is  to  point  a  moral.    Dryden  :  — 
44  Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state.11 

44  But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 
And  Fortuned  ice  prefers  to  Virtue^  land.11 

4<  He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left." 

The  antithesis  is  much  used  in  the  Epigram :  — 

44  On  parents  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  safst,  while  all  around  thee  smiled 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  long  last  sleep, 
Calm  thou  may^t  smile,  while  all  around  thee  weep." 

A  peculiar  antithesis  is  the  sneer  of  Richard  after  he 
has  murdered  the  king  :  — 


128 


POETICS. 


"  What,  will  the  aspiring  blood  of  Lancaster 
Sink  in  the  ground?    I  thought  it  would  have  mounted. " 

—  3  Henry  VI  v.  6. 

The  antithesis  generally  brings  out  an  opposition  in 
the  meaning  —  as  in  the  foregoing  examples.  But 
there  is  a  similar  figure  which  brings  out  a  likeness  —  a 
sort  of  parallel.    Thus  Chaucer  :  — 

44  Up  roos  the  sonne  and  up  roos  Emelye.11 

44  When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept." 

—  yulius  Ccesar. 

The  great  merit  of  the  antithesis  is  the  same  as  the 
merit  of  its  chief  masters,  Dryden  and  Pope, — concise- 
ness and  clearness.  It  presents  an  idea  in  brief  but 
forcible  expression.  But  its  faults  are  also  the  faults 
of  Pope  and  Dryden,  —  lack  of  naturalness,  a  tendency 
to  labored  manner,  a  striving  after  effect.  In  poor 
hands  (imitators  of  Pope)  it  becomes  intolerable. 

2.  The  antithesis  is  not  necessarily  a  contradiction. 
But  there  is  a  figure  (something  like  the  hyperbole 
among  tropes)  where  a  seeming  contradiction  in  terms 
brings  out  vividly  the  general  idea. 

When  the  contradictory  terms  are  brought  sharply 
together,  the  figure  is  called  Oxymoron  ;  when  they  are 
not  so  closely  joined,  Paradox.  Keats  is  a  poet  fond  of 
such  figures  :  — 

"...  and  then  there  crept 
A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves" 

4  4  A  half-heard  strain 
Full  of  sweet  desolation ,  —  balmy  pain" 


FIGURES. 


129 


To  these  striking  examples  we  may  add  :  — 

44  O  heavy  lightness,  serious  vanity ! 11 

—  Romeo  and  Juliet,  1.  1. 

Chaucer :  — 

44  And  smale  fowles  maken  melodie 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye." 

Pope  :  — 

44  And  sleepless  lovers  just  at  twelve  awake.1" 
Milton  :  — 

44  By  merit  raised  to  that  bad  eminence. " 

44  With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning." 
Shirley  :  — 

44  Upon  death's  purple  altar  now 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds." 

Mrs.  Browning  :  — 

"  He  denied 
Divinely  the  divine." 

Example  of  Paradox  is  :  — 

44  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage."  —  Lovelace. 

3.  Climax  and  Anticlimax.  —  The  great  art  in  prose 
or  verse  is  to  leave  on  the  reader's  mind  the  most  dis- 
tinct and  sharp  impression  possible  (cf.  H.  Spencer  On 
the  Philosophy  of  Style).  To  do  this,  great  care  must 
be  exercised  in  the  arrangement  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion. The  most  important  part  should,  as  a  rule,  come 
last,  and  thus  leave  itself  in  the  mind  without  anything 
following  to  mar  the  impression.  So  Eve  says  to 
Adam  :  — 


13° 


POETICS. 


"  But  neither  breath  of  Morn  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land,  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glistring  with  dew,  nor  fragrance  after  showers, 
Nor  grateful  Evening  mild,  nor  silent  Night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  sweet" 

—  Par.  Lost,  4.  650  ff. 

We  see  how  far  better  is  this  arrangement  than  if 
Eve  said,  "  Nothing  without  thee  is  sweet, — neither," 
etc. 

This  figure  of  Climax,  —  a  gradual  rising  in  power  to 
a  conclusion  that  towers  above  all  that  precedes,  —  is 
very  common.  Note  the  order  of  terms  in  the  follow- 
ing:— 

"  The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.'" —  Tempest,  iv.  1. 

One  form  of  climax  is  that  which  leads  us,  by  one 
particular  after  another,  up  to  the  main  fact  of  a  state- 
ment :  — 

"  When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 

Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, — 

Lord  Marmiotfs  steed  rushed  by"  —  Scott,  Marmion,  vi. 

For  oratorical  climax,  Nichol  calls  Marc  Antony's 
speech  to  the  citizens,  the  most  remarkable  instance 
in  English.  "Of  more  purely  poetical  climax/'  he  says, 
"  there  is  no  finer  example  than  the  concluding  lines  of 
Coleridge's  Mont  Blanc!' 


FIGURES. 


We  may  add  that  the  finest  dramatic  climax  is  the 
last  speech  of  Othello.  —  The  conclusion  of  Pope's 
Dunciad  is  another  famous  climax,  and  was  especially 
admired  by  Dr.  Johnson. 

Climax,  we  see,  strengthens  the  impression  of  any 
great  or  striking  part  of  a  statement.  But  it  is  also 
used  to  make  littleness  appear  yet  more  little,  the 
laughable  or  mean  still  more  laughable  or  mean.  This 
is  called  Anticlimax.  We  ascend  nearly  to  the  height 
of  the  climax,  the  sublime,  —  then  fall  either  to  the 
absurd,  mean,  or  to  some  other  unexpected  end. 

4  4  Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast 
When  husbands  or  when  lapdogs  breathe  their  last." 

—  Pope,  Rape  of  the  Lock, 

* 4  Is  it  not  monstrous  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit, 
That  from  her  working  all  his  visage  wann'd, 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in's  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit?    And  all  for  nothing  !  " 

—  Hamlet,  n.  2. 

44  The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind."  —  Pope. 
For  purposes  of  sarcasm.    Pope  :  — 

44  Go  teach  eternal  wisdom  how  to  rule, 
Then  drop  into  thyself,  and  be  a  fool." 

For  purposes  of  mere  wit :  — 

44  When  late  I  attempted  your  pity  to  move, 
What  made  you  so  deaf  to  my  prayers? 
Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love, 
But,  —  why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs  ?  " 

These  examples  of  intentional  anticlimax  are,  of 
course,  to  be  held  apart  from  the  rhetorical  faidt  of  the 


132 


POETICS. 


same  name,  —  which  is  simply  a  bad  climax.  With  the 
infinite  blunders  and  bad  uses  of  figurative  poetry  we 
are  not  concerned,  as  the  aim  of  our  study  is  to  find 
out  all  that  is  peculiar  to  the  style  of  good  poets. 


Part  III. 


METRE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  science  of  verse  is  the  most  difficult  part  of 
Poetics,  and  yet  it  is  the  most  important ;  for  metrical 
form  is  "  the  sole  condition  .  .  .  absolutely  demanded  by 
poetry."  The  chief  difficulty  lies  in  the  great  confusion 
of  opinion  about  the  essential  laws  and  tests  of  verse. 
There  is  no  fixed  use  of  terms,  no  full  agreement  even 
on  some  of  the  simplest  elements  of  the  science.  We 
must  therefore  proceed  carefully,  accepting  only  the 
more  generally  admitted  facts,  and  refusing  to  follow 
those  sweeping  changes  of  recent  writers,  which  are  in 
so  many  cases  merely  destructive  of  old  theory  without 
offering  solid  basis  for  new  rules. 

§  I.  RHYTHM. 

A  Syllable  is  a  body  of  sound  brought  out  with  an 
independent,  single,  and  unbroken  breath  (Sievers). 
This  syllable  may  be  long  or  short,  according  to  the 
time  it  fills  :  compare  the  syllables  in  merrily  with  the 
syllables  in  corkscrew.  Further,  a  syllable  may  be 
heavy  or  light  (also  called  accented  or  unaccented)  ac- 
cording as  it  receives  more  or  less  force  or  stress  of 


134 


POETICS. 


tone  :  compare  the  two  syllables  of  streamer.  Lastly, 
a  syllable  may  have  increased  or  diminished  height  of 
tone, — pitch:  cf.  the  so-called  " rising  inflection"  at 
the  end  of  a  question.  Now,  in  spoken  language,  there 
are  infinite  degrees  of  length,  of  stress,  of  pitch.  If 
phonetic  spelling  come  to  be  firmly  established,  we 
shall  also  have  a  phonetic  versification  to  note  these 
degrees.  But  while  some  new  systems  have  been 
advocated  (e.g.,  Ellis's  plan  for  a  new  metrical  termi- 
nology ;  or  see  a  report,  in  the  Academy,  Jan.  10,  1885, 
of  a  paper  read  before  the  Philological  Society  in 
London  :  it  advocates  a  "  phonetic  notation,  providing 
signs  for  all  the  significant  sounds,  as  well  as  for  at 
least  three  degrees  of  stress  and  five  of  length  ")  none 
has  been  established.  Our  conventional  versification 
recognizes  only  accented  and  unaccented,  long  and 
short  syllables. 

It  is  a  well-known  property  of  human  speech  that  it 
keeps  up  a  ceaseless  change  between  accented  and 
unaccented  syllables.  A  long  succession  of  accented 
syllables  becomes  unbearably  monotonous  ;  a  long  suc- 
cession of  unaccented  syllables  is,  in  effect,  impossible. 
Now  when  the  ear  detects  at  regular  intervals  a  recur- 
rence of  accented  syllables,  varying  with  unaccented,  it 
perceives  Rhythm.  Measured  intervals  of  time  are  the 
basis  of  all  verse,  and  their  regularity  marks  off  poetry 
from  prose  ;  so  that  Time  is  thus  the  chief  element  in 
Poetry,  as  it  is  in  Music  and  in  Dancing.  From  the 
idea  of  measuring  these  time-intervals,  we  derive  the 
name  Metre  ;  Rhythm  means  pretty  much  the  same 
thing,  —  "a  flowing/'  an  even,  measured  motion.  This 
rhythm  is  found  everywhere  in  nature :  the  beat  of  the 


METRE. 


135 


heart,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea,  the  alternation 
of  day  and  night.  Rhythm  is  not  artificial,  not  an 
invention  ; 1  it  lies  at  the  heart  of  things,  and  in  rhythm 
the  noblest  emotions  find  their  noblest  expression. 
Rhythm,  or  metre,  made  itself  known  very  early  in  the 
history  of  our  race,  just  as  one  who  walks  briskly  in 
a  cheerful  mood,  involuntarily  marks  his  steps  with  a 
song,  whistling,  humming,  or  the  like,  so  at  the  primi- 
tive religious  rites  of  our  ancestors  the  usual  solemn 
dance2  was  accompanied  by  a  song.  As  the  dancing 
lines  swayed  back  and  forth,  they  marked  their  steps 
by  chanted  words,  —  a  syllable  for  each  step:  the  words 
were  rude  enough  at  first,  but  little  by  little  gained  in 
precision  and  meaning  (cf.  p.  9).  Two  steps,  right  and 
left,  made  a  unit ;  for  with  the  third,  the  first  motion 
was  repeated.  We  may  thus  assume  the  double  beat 
of  left-right  as  metrical  unit:  cf.  the  term  "foot." 
Westphal  has  shown  that  the  original  Indo-European 
metre  consisted  of  a  measured  chant  accompanying  a 
dance  of  eight  steps  forward  and  eight  backward ;  the 
whole  making  one  verse,  divided  into  halves  (cf  the 
classic  Ccesura)  by  the  pause  and  return.  We  shall  see 
below  that  in  Germanic2"  poetry  these  half-verses  were 
firmly  bound  together  by  Rime.     The  alternation  of 

1  Hence  much  of  the  talk'about  "  barbarous  metre  "  and  "  apt  numbers  " 
is  absurd  so  far  as  it  assumes  to  treat  rhythm  as  a  constantly  increasing 
accomplishment  of  civilized  man.  "Any  Volkslied"  writes  in  a  private 
letter  one  of  our  leading  English  scholars,  "  any  Volkslied  shows  as  good 
an  ear  as  any  Pindaric  ode  by  Gray  or  whomever  else." 

2  This  dance  was  regular ;  it  was  developed  from  the  ?narch  and  con- 
sisted of  steps,  not  of  irregular  leaps. 

8  It  is  perhaps  necessary  to  insist  on  the  meaning  of  this  term :  it  in- 
cludes High  and  Low  German,  Gothic,  Norse,  Anglo-Saxon,  etc. 


136 


POETICS. 


stronger  right  and  weaker  left  gave  the  accented  and 
the  unaccented  beat  (=  syllable)  of  the  foot.  With  the 
end  of  the  verse  (verto),  the  dancers  turned  again  to 
repeat  their  forward-and-back.  [For  further  particulars, 
see  Westphal,  Metrik  der  Griechen,  Vol.  n. ;  or  Scherer, 
Zur  Geschiehte  der  deutschen  Sprache,  2d  ed.  p.  623.] 

Or,  we  could  imagine  a  quicker  rhythm,  in  which 
there  should  be  two  syllables  to  each  step  :  one  syllable 
light,  with  the  lifting  of  the  foot ;  the  other  heavy,  as 
the  foot  struck  the  ground  again  :  cf.  the  classic  terms 
(inconsistently  used)  arsis  and  thesis.  One  thing  is 
certain  :  in  this  combination  of  song  and  dance  we  see 
the  origin  of  rhythm  as  applied  to  connected  words. 
Thus,  rhythm  is  the  harmonious  repetition  of  certain 
fixed  sound-relations  :  time  being  the  basis,  just  as  in 
dancing  or  music. 

This  brings  another  question  :  —  what  relation  is  there 
between  the  rhythm  of  music  and  the  rhythm  of  poetry? 
The  further  back  we  go,  the  more  closely  music  and 
poetry  are  connected.  For  modern  times,  we  may  state 
the  difference  thus :  Music  has  for  distinctive  character- 
istic, melody, — the  variations  of  pitch,  of  "high"  and 
"low"  notes,  but  speech  has,  in  effect,  no  such  fixed  varia- 
tions ;  that  is,  they  furnish  no  special,  definite  mark  to 
speech,  except  in  questions,  surprise,  etc.  But  speech 
has  quality,  —  what  the  Germans  call  tone-color.  Infinite 
variety  is  imparted  to  speech  by  the  combinations  of 
different  vocal  effects,  —  the  full  or  thin  vowels,  the 
diphthongs,  the  consonants.  This  tone-tint  is  to  poetry 
what  melody  is  to  music  :  common  to  both  poetry  and 
music  is  rhythm. 

Our  business,  therefore,  is  to  consider  verse  in  its 


METRE. 


137 


rhythm  and  in  the  quality  of  its  tones.  Rhythm  has 
two  branches  :  time  and  stress,  or  quantity  and  accent. 
Both  are  familiar  to  music,  but  time  more  especially. 
Hence,  that  poetry  which  depends,  for  metrical  effect, 
chiefly  upon  detailed  time-relations  {quantity)  will  come 
nearer  to  music  than  the  poetry  which  depends  chiefly  on 
stress-relations  (intensity,  accent). 

§  2.  QUANTITY. 

Quantity  deals  with  the  relative  length  of  a  syllable  ; 
that  is,  with  the  time  required  to  utter  it.  The  Greeks 
adopted  quantity  as  principle  of  their  metre,  and  based 
their  verse  upon  the  relation  of  long  and  short  sylla- 
bles. A  syllable  was  long  which  contained  a  long  vowel 
or  a  diphthong,  or  a  final  consonant  coming  before 
another  consonant  in  the  next  syllable  ;  a  long  syllable 
was  equal  to  two  short  ones.  For  such  poetry,  the  term 
" metre"  is  very  appropriate:  the  verse  was  really 
measured.  In  the  Germanic  languages,  and  in  nearly 
all  modern  poetry,  accent  is  made  the  principle  of  verse : 
we  weigh  our  syllables,  we  ask  how  much  force,  not  how 
much  time,  they  require.  Meanwhile,  we  do  not  utterly 
refuse  to  recognize  quantity  as  an  element  of  verse,  nor 
was  classic  poetry  unfamiliar  with  accent.  In  the  latter, 
an  " ictus,"  or  stress,  fell  upon  the  long  syllable;  in 
modern  verse,  while  the  main  principle  is  the  alterna- 
tion of  heavy  and  light  syllables,  we  nevertheless  admit 
quantity  as  a  "  regulative  "  element.  It  is  a  secondary 
factor  of  verse. 

First,  as  to  the  principle  of  quantity  in  classic  verse. 
Take  the  famous  line  of  Vergil :  — 

"  Quadrupedante  putrem  sonitu  quatit  ungula  campum,"  — 


138 


POETICS. 


and  a  verse  of  Evangeline :  — 

"  This  is  the  forest  primeval,  but  where  are  the  hearts  that  beneath 
it,"  — 

and  at  first  sight  we  call  each  a  dactylic  hexameter 
verse.    We  give  a  scheme  :  — 

—  \J  W    —\J\J    —\J\J    ~\J\J  —  ^ 

In  one  sense,  this  scheme  fits  both  verses ;  but  there 
is  a  radical  difference  in  the  application.  In  the  Latin, 
contrast  of  long  (— )  and  short  (y),  a  fixed  relation  of 
time  within  the  foot  as  well  as  within  the  verse,  gave 
exquisite  pleasure  to  the  sensitive  ear.  This  time- 
relation  was  the  chief  metrical  factor,  although  an 
"  ictus"  (')  or  stress  undoubtedly  marked  the  long 
syllables.  In  the  English  verse  there  is  no  fixed  rela- 
tion of  quantity  within  the  foot :  "  this  "  requires  prac- 
tically no  more  time  than  "is"  or  "the,"  and  not  as 
much  as  the  metrically  short  but  actually  long  pri-  in 
"  primeval."  The  time-intervals  of  the  whole  verse  are 
marked  off  by  the  recurrence  of  the  stress,  just  as  in 
Latin  by  the  recurrence  of  the  long  syllable.  This  is 
an  important  difference.  We  may  say  that  in  classic 
metres,  quantity  is  the  mistress,  while  quality  (stress) 
plays  a  handmaid's  part.  The  result  was  a  harmony 
more  musical  than  can  be  given  by  our  verse,  in  which 
stress  is  chief  metrical  factor,  and  quantity  has  only  a 
regulative  office.  Some  writers  say  that  modern  verse 
does  not  recognize  quantity  at  all.  This  is  a  mistake. 
"  Long  and  short  syllables,"  says  Schipper  in  his 
Englische  Metrik,  "  have  no  constant  length,  no  con- 
stant relation,  —  but  they  depend  on  their  place  in  the 
verse,  and  on  the  context ;  though  they  do  not  deter- 


METRE. 


139 


mine  the  rhythm  of  verse,  they  still  act  as  regulators 
of  our  metre  in  a  very  important  degree."  That  is, 
while  no  precise  rules  prevail,  the  skilful  poet  avoids  an 
excess  of  unaccented  long  syllables  or  accented  short 
ones.  It  is  not  the  proportion  of  long  and  short  within 
the  foot  that  we  heed,  but  the  proportion  in  the  whole 
verse.  Further,  quantity  is  used  to  help  the  meaning 
—  a  sort  of  onomatopoeia :  as  in 

"  The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o1er  the  lea." 

It  is  very  important  to  hold  apart  this  special,  classi- 
cal principle  of  quantity,  or  the  time  of  separate  syllables, 
from  the  general  principle  of  time-intervals  underlying 
all  rhythm  (cf.  p.  134).  Thus  Tennyson's  two  verses: 
"  Break  —  break  —  break  "  —  and  "  On  thy  cold,  gray 
stones,  O  Sea!"  are  rhythmically  harmonious,  since  the 
time-intervals  agree  ;  as  may  be  seen  by  any  one  who 
will  tap  off  the  accented  syllables,  allowing  for  the 
pauses  in  the  first  verse.  But  we  can  arrive  at  no 
metrical  result  by  simply  applying  the  test  of  quantity 
to  the  individual  syllables.  It  is  not  the  length  of  the 
word  "  break "  (of  course,  elocutionary  motives  may 
prolong  the  sound  at  will)  which  makes  it  metrically 
equal,  to  "  on  thy  cold  "  ;  it  is  the  heavy  accent,  followed 
by  a  pause. 

§  3.  ACCENT. 

Accent,  then,  is  the  chief  factor  of  modern  verse. 
But  there  are  two  kinds  of  accent  which  we  must  con- 
sider before  we  can  fully  grasp  the  difference  between 
classical  and  modern  metres  :  the  word-accent  and  the 
verse-accent.  (1)  Word-Accent. — When  a  word  has 
two  syllables,  one  of  these  receives  a  marked  increase 


140 


POETICS. 


of  tone  as  compared  with  the  other.  In  words  of 
more  than  two  syllables,  there  is  generally  a  secondary 
accent  :  i.e.,  one  of  the  remaining  syllables  receives 
less  tone,  indeed,  than  the  accented  syllable,  but  more 
than  the  rest :  cf.  shepheid,  shepherdess,  sliepJierdesses. 
Of  course,  there  can  be  a  third  accent,  if  the  word  have 
syllables  enough  ;  for,  as  said  above,  speech  tends  to 
alternate  accented  with  unaccented. 

Of  the  same  nature  as  the  word-accent  are,  further, 
the  sy?itactical  and  the  rhetorical  accent,  which  concern 
relations  of  words  in  a  sentence.  The  accent  lifts 
certain  words  into  prominence,  leaving  others  without 
special  stress  of  tone,  and  without  the  added  distinct- 
ness of  articulation  which  often  accompanies  accent. 

These  two  accents  —  of  the  word  and  of  the  sentence 
—  are  of  great  importance  in  modern  verse  ;  but  in  the 
classic  metres,  which  had  more  of  a  musical  character 
than  our  own,  they  exercised  less  influence.  Especially 
is  this  the  case  with  word-accent  ;  and  this  we  must 
look  at  more  closely,  in  order  to  see  what  difference 
there  is  between  ancient  and  modern  languages  in  their 
methods  of  selecting,  in  a  given  word,  the  syllable  to 
be  accented.  This  applies,  of  course,  to  prose  as  well 
as  to  poetry.  (1)  The  Grammatical  Accent. — This  is 
the  principle  in  Sanskrit,  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  in 
Greek.  Taking  a  given  word,  we  find  its  accented 
syllable  shifting  with  different  grammatical  forms  of 
the  word.  In  Sanskrit  this  word-accent  is  not  even 
confined,  as  it  is  in  Greek,  to  the  last  three  syllables. 
Thus  we  have  a  Movable  Accent.  (2)  The  Rhythmical 
Accent.  —  The  word-accent  tends  to  fall  upon  a  long 
syllable,  as  in  the  Latin.    In  Greek,  the  accent  was 


METRE. 


141 


indifferent  to  the  quantity  of  the  syllable  on  which  it 
fell:  thus  the  Greek  chtmaira  became  Latin  chimcera. 
(3)  The  Logical  Accent.  —  A  brilliant  piece  of  research 
by  Carl  Verner  has  proved  the  existence  of  a  movable 
accent  in  the  oldest  forms  of  the  Germanic  languages. 
This  has  left  its  mark  in  a  few  sound-changes  with 
which  we  are  not  here  concerned.  But  it  is  certain 
that  at  a  very  early  period,  before  the  date  of  any 
Germanic  literature  known  to  us,  this  movable  accent 
was  given  up,  and  the  word-accent  became  a  fixed  one. 
It  chose  and  clung  to  a  certain  syllable,  and  this  was 
the  syllable  which  gave  meaning  to  the  word.  Hence 
the  term  "  logical  accent."  In  all  original  English 
words,  and  in  many  words  derived  from  foreign  sources, 
we  bring  out  with  additional  stress  the  syllable  which 
bears  the  real  weight  of  the  word,  the  root-syllable. 
Instead  of  the  shifting  Greek  accent  which  changed 
from  a  nominative  to  a  genitive  of  the  same  word 
(dnthrdpos :  anthrdpoii),  we  have  such  persistence  as 
sheep,  shepherd,  shepherdess,  shepherdesses. 

(11)  Verse-Accent.  —  We  have  seen  that  verse  is 
now  marked  off  by  the  regular  recurrence  of  a  stress  or 
accent  falling  on  certain  syllables  ;  and  that  even  in 
classic  metres  a  stress  fell  upon  the  long  syllables. 
We  naturally  ask  how  this  verse-accent  agrees  with  the 
word-accent  just  described.  Looking,  first,  at  the  dif- 
ferent ways  in  which  we  could  make  verses,  we  find  the 
simplest  plan  to  be  a  mere  counting  of  syllables,  with 
absolute  ignoring  of  word-accent.  Each  syllable  would 
be  a  verse-accent.  Thus,  if  we  slowly  count  off  "  one 
—  two  —  three  —  four,"  then  repeat  the  words  with  the 
same  slowness,  accenting  each  like  the  rest,  we  shall 


142 


POETICS. 


have  a  metrical  result.  Fragments  of  verse  said  to  be 
based  on  this  bare  syllable-counting  are  found  in  the 
Old-Persian,  the  language  of  the  Avesta.  But  such  a 
system  tends  to  pass  into  something  else ;  for  the 
impulse  to  pairs  (as  in  the  ticking  of  a  clock),  and  to 
alternation  of  strong  and  weak  tones,  is  inherent  in 
language. 

Or,  again,  we  may  have  a  regular  system  of  verse  in 
which  (as  in  the  pairs  of  steps  in  the  primitive  dance 
noticed  above)  certain  syllables  are  accented  for  metri- 
cal reasons,  and  others  are  left  without  accent.  The 
metre  will  thus  be  regarded  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  word- 
accent.  As  a  license  of  verse,  this  is  common  enough 
in  our  modern  poetry ;  but  does  not  extend  beyond 
isolated  words.  We  have  two  kinds  of  this  license  : 
the  "Hovering  Accent "  and  the  "  Wrenched  Accent." 
In  the  former,  word-accent  and  verse-accent  simply 
divide  the  stress  between  them:  the  accent  "hovers" 
over  both,  —  as  in  :  — 

"  That  through  the  green  cornfield  did  pass."  —  Shakspere. 

The  "wrenched  accent"  throws  the  stress  on  an  inflex- 
ional syllable :  — 

"  For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  \vkx^-player."  —  Swinburne. 

So,  too,  the  porter  and  counti'ee  of  the  ballads.  Of  this 
license  Puttenham  speaks  {Arte  of  English  Poesie)  in  a 
chapter  headed  :  "  How  the  good  maker  (sc.  poet)  will 
not  wrench  his  word  to  helpe  his  rime,  either  by  falsify- 
ing his  accent,  or  by  untrue  orthographic"  Gascoigne 
(Notes  of  Instruction)  lays  down  the  same  law,  and 
observes  it  carefully  in  his  Steele  Glas ;  and  it  is  quite 


METRE. 


143 


clear  that  we  cannot  extend  this  license  to  a  whole 
verse ;  no  harmonious  system  can  result  from  a  mere 
ignoring  of  one  kind  of  accent  to  suit  another.  Some 
other  metrical  element  must  come  in.  This  new  ele- 
ment is  furnished  in  the  shape  of  quantity.  Suppose, 
now,  we  do  push  word-accent  out  of  the  question,  but 
make  a  rule  that  the  verse-accent,  the  ictus,  must  fall 
exclusively  upon  those  syllables  which  have  a  stated 
quantity — the  "long"  syllables.  This  is  the  rule  of 
Greek  and  Latin  metre.  But  in  this  scheme  we  need 
not  ignore  the  word-accent  :  for  the  Greek  word-accent 
was  an  increase  of  pitch,  an  added  height  of  tone,  not 
added  stress.  "  In  the  Indian,  in  the  Greek,  and  in 
the  Roman  verse,  there  was  no  conflict  between  the 
ictus,  by  which  the  verse  was  measured,  and  the  accent 
of  the  words  which  made  up  the  verse"  (Scherer).1 
The  fact  that  our  Germanic  race,  and,  later,  most  mod- 
ern languages,  made  stress  of  tone  necessary  for  the 
word-accent,  renders  it  now  impossible  to  distinguish  a 
word-accent  by  height  of  tone  (pitch)  and  give  the 
stress  to  a  neighbor-syllable.  But  the  Greek  combined 
musical  and  metrical  effects  where  we  cannot.  As 
was  hinted  above,  the  recitation  of  the  Greek  minstrel 
must  have  been  a  sort  of  chant :  the  speech  was  more 
musical  on  account  of  its  pitch  ;  the  metre  was  more 
musical  on  account  of  its  time-relations. 

But  early  in  the  history  of  the  Germanic  races,  stress- 
accent  for  words  pushed  into  the  foreground.  They 
gave  up  the  fixed  relations  of  quantity,  as  well  as  the 

1  So,  too,  Westphal.  It  is  only  fair  to  state  that  some  writers  on  metre 
oppose  this  view,  and  contend  that  the  Greek  verse  simply  ignored  word- 
accent. 


144 


POETICS. 


pitch-accent.  They  weighed  their  syllables.  Their 
verse  depended  on  the  contrast  of  heavy  and  light,  not 
long  and  short.  Accent  became,  as  Daniel  puts  it  in 
his  Defense  of  Rynie  (1603),  "the  chief  lord  and  grave 
governour  of  numbers."  This  choice  of  accent  rather 
than  quantity  lay,  thinks  Scherer,  in  the  passionate 
and  vehement  nature  of  our  Germanic  race.  Our 
ancestors  were  disposed  to  extremes,  and  lacked  the 
quiet,  artistic  sense  that  adopted  the  placid  rhythm  of 
Greek  verse.  The  German  could  not  linger  on  his 
verse-accent  ;  he  put  into  it  all  the  strength  of  which 
he  was  capable ;  and  he  helped  his  voice  by  strokes  on 
some  loud  instrument,  the  strokes  being  timed  by 
verse-accents.  Now,  we  remember  how  the  Germanic 
word-accent  was  chosen  :  it  had  to  rest  on  the  root- 
syllable.  Perhaps  this  word-accent  was  once,  as  in 
Greek,  a  variation  of  pitch,  not  a  stress ;  but  early  in 
the  history  of  the  race,  stress  was  adopted  as  sole  mark 
of  the  word-accent.  But  here  is  a  conflict.  The  same 
word  might  have  on  one  syllable  the  verse-accent,  on 
another  syllable  the  word-accent  ;  and  both  were 
marked  by  stress,  by  strength  of  tone.  This  was 
intolerable.  Hence  a  rule  which  became  the  funda- 
mental principle  of  all  Germanic  verse :  The  word- 
accent  AND  THE  VERSE-ACCENT  MUST  FALL  ON  ONE 
AND  THE  SAME  SYLLABLE  \  AND  THIS  COMMON  ACCENT 
CONSISTS   IN   STRESS   OF  TONE. 

Compared  with  Greek  and  Latin  metres,  our  verse 
gains  in  intensity  and  force,  loses  in  grace  and  flexi- 
bility. This  is  especially  true  of  our  earliest  verse, 
before  the  influence  of  the  classics  had  added  so  much 
grace  and  freedom,  and,  at  the  same  time,  regularity, 


METRE. 


145 


to  our  rhythm.  The  Greek  verse  sped  swiftly  and 
lightly,  like  an  Olympian  athlete ;  the  early  Germanic 
verse  had  the  clanging  tread  of  a  warrior  in  mail. 

As  to  the  agreement  of  the  verse-accent  with  the 
rhetorical  or  the  syntactical  accent,  there  is  no  fixed 
rule.  The  agreement  may  lie  on  the  surface,  as  in 
Pope's  or  Dryden's  verse,  where  a  rhetorical  effect  is 
always  evident :  — 

"  When  music  softens  or  when  dancing  fires.'1 

But  in  other  verse  there  is  not  the  same  effort  to  bring 
out  a  rhetorical  accent ;  cf.  Keats  :  — 

"  His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse." 

In  general,  the  metrical  stress  and  the  syntactical 
accent  must  agree  ;  for  otherwise  an  intolerable  empha- 
sis would  be  thrown  upon  the  unimportant  words. 

We  may  here  note  that  traces  of  accentual  verse  are 
found  in  the  oldest  Latin  literature.  Latin  poetry  of 
the  classical  period  took  its  metres  from  the  Greek  ; 
but  in  the  so-called  Saturnian  Verse  we  have  undoubted 
accentual  rhythm,  and  also  rime,  which,  indeed,  is  a 
natural  product  of  the  accentual  system. 

§  4.  PAUSES. 

The  foundation  of  rhythm  is  a  regular  succession  of 
equal  time-intervals.  In  English  verse  these  are  marked 
off  by  accented  syllables.  A  group  of  such  "  bars  "  or 
"  feet "  may  be  marked  off  by  a  regular  stop  in  the 
sense  ;  another  group  follows,  repeating  the  conditions 
of  the  first,  —  and  so  on.  But  this  would  be  intolerably 
monotonous.    Variety  is  obtained  not  only  by  license 


146 


POETICS. 


in  the  distribution  of  heavy  and  light  syllables,  but  also 
by  the  use  of  pauses.  There  are  two  kinds  of  pause  : 
the  compensating  and  the  rhythmical.  The  compensa- 
ting pause  takes  the  place  of  a  syllable.  While  in 
general  the  rule  holds  that  modern  verse  regularly 
varies  accented  with  unaccented  syllables,  i.e.,  gives  at 
least  one  light  to  every  heavy  syllable,  there  are  cases 
where  the  accent  is  preceded  or  followed  by  a  pause  in 
place  of  the  light  syllable.  This  omission  of  the  unac- 
cented syllable  may  be  regular,  —  as  in  the  already 
quoted  "  Break,  break,  break,"  where  the  pauses  are 
very  evident ;  or  it  may  be  somewhat  irregular,  as  in 
the  lines  quoted  by  Ruskin  (Prosody,  p.  34)  :  — 

44  Till'  said'  to  Tweed' : 
Though'  ye  rin'  wi'  speed', 
And  F  rin'  slaw', 
Whar  ye'  droon'  ae'  man 
I'  droon'  twa'." 

The  metrical  effect,  say  of  the  first  line,  would  be  the 
same  if  we  read:  "  The  Till,  it  said  to  Tweed."  —  Or 
the  omission  may  be  isolated  and  quite  irregular.  Cf. 
the  witches'  song  in  Macbeth :  — 

44  Toad,  that  under  cold  stone, 

Days  and  nights  hast  thfrty-dne,"  etc. 

14  Let  your  odour  drive  hence 
All  mists  that  dazzle  sense."  —  Fletcher. 

Guest  condemns  this  license  between  syllables  of  one 
word  —  as  "  sun-beam,"  "moon-light"  (Spenser).  It 
may  be  said  in  general  terms  of  this  compensating 
pause  that  the  spirit  of  our  modern  verse  is  against  its 
isolated  use,  but  allows  it  when  it  is  employed  with 
regularity.     Compare   expressions   like  "  Aiild  lang 


METRE. 


H7 


syne,"  or  Cowper's  "Toll'  for'  the  brave'."  Dramatic 
verse  is  very  familiar  with  this  pause.  Dowden  speaks 
of  the  dramatic  pause  "  expressing  surprise  or  sudden 
emotion,  or  accompanying  a  change  of  speakers,  and 
leaving  a  gap  in  the  verse,  —  a  gap  through  which  we 
feel  the  wind  of  passion  and  of  song."  One  famous 
line  in  Measure  for  Measure  goes  so  far  as  to  let  the 
pause  compensate  for  a  (technically)  heavy  syllable  :  — 

"  Merciful  heaven ! 
Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Splitt'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak, 
Than  the  soft  myrtle.    But  man,  proud  man"  etc. 

Certain  editors  have  even  proclaimed  this  verse  corrupt 
because  hopelessly  unrhythmical.  Scanned  by  the 
fingers,  it  is  unrhythmical.  But  let  any  one  read  it 
carefully  aloud,  give  due  weight  to  the  (technically 
light)  syllable  "  soft "  (which  is  naturally  emphatic  as 
opposed  to  "  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  "),  and  also  to 
the  decided  pause  after  "myrtle,"  —  and  the  line  will 
be  musical  enough. 

The  Rhythmical  Pause.  —  Here  there  is  no  dropped 
syllable  in  the  case.  It  is  simply  a  pause  in  the  verse 
which  generally,  but  not  always,  corresponds  to  a  pause 
in  the  sense.  The  compensating  pause  allowed  the 
omission  of  a  syllable :  the  rhythmical  pause  frequently 
is  followed  by  an  extra  syllable.  Of  course,  the  end  of 
the  verse  furnishes  the  chief  rhythmical  pause.  When 
the  sense  also  pauses  here,  the  verse  is  called  "  end- 
stopt"  (the  technical  term  used  by  Shakspere  scholars) : 
when  the  sense  does  not  so  pause,  the  verse  is  called 
"run-on."  But  there  is  another  pause  after  either  the 
accented  or  the  unaccented  syllable,  commonly  about 


148 


POETICS. 


the  middle  of  the  verse  (called  in  classical  metres  the 
ccesum),  which  increases  in  importance  with  the  num- 
ber of  accents  contained  in  the  verse.  This  pause 
naturally  tends  to  agree  with  the  logical  pause ;  but 
such  is  not  always  the  case.    Thus  (L Allegro) 

4 '  When  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud  " 

has  no  pause  in  the  sense,  but  there  is  a  slight  rhythmi- 
cal pause  after  " winds."  It  is  stronger  and  equally 
independent  of  logical  pause  in  (Dryden,  A.  &  A.) 

"  Usurp'd  a  patriot's  |  all-atoning  name  ;  " 

and  it  is  absolutely  importunate  in  (Drayton,  Polyol- 
bion) 

**  The  yellow  kingcup  wrought  |  in  many  a  curious  shape." 

But  in  most  cases  it  is  logical  as  well  as  rhythmical  ; 
and  here  we  distinguish  (a)  the  pause  that  breaks  a 
single  verse  into  two  or  even  three  groups,  —  as  in 
(Pope,  R.  of  L) 

"  When  husbands  |  or  when  lapdogs  |  breathe  their  last ;  " 
"  When  music  softens  |  and  when  dancing  fires  ;  " 

and  (b)  the  pause  in  run-on  lines,  breaking  up  a  series 
of  verses  into  new  groups,  so  that  the  logical  divisions 
of  phrases  and  sentences,  and  the  rhythmical  divisions 
of  feet  and  verses,  do  not  coincide.  In  both  these 
cases  (a  and  b)  there  is  produced  that  exquisite  strife 
between  unity  and  variety,  the  type  and  the  individual, 
which  is  characteristic  of  our  best  poetry.  There  is 
great  freedom  in  the  use  of  the  pause.  Whereas  Gas- 
coigne  thinks  that  the  pause  "  in  a  verse  of  tenne  will 
best  be  placed  at  the  end  of  the  first  foure  sillables," 


METRE. 


149 


our  later  blank-verse  does  not  follow  the  stiff  example 
of  The  Steele  Glas.  Thus  with  Milton,  the  stateliness 
is  due  to  the  sonorous  march  of  accents,  their  arrange- 
ment and  proportion  ;  the  variety  is  due  to  the  con- 
stantly shifting  pause  within  the  verse.  In  Shakspere's 
verse  we  can  trace  the  progress  towards  a  free  handling 
of  pauses.  His  earlier  plays  are  full  of  "  end-stopt " 
verses,  —  i.e.,  the  sense  pauses  at  the  end  of  each  verse. 
But  the  later  plays  abound  in  "run-on"  verses.  In 
Loves  Labour's  Lost,  an  early  play,  Mr.  Furnivall 
counts  one  run-on  verse  to  18.14  end-stopt;  in  the 
Tempest,  a  late  play,  the  proportion  is  1  :  3.02. 

The  pause  occurs  in  different  parts  of  the  verse,  and 
may  be  "masculine"  or  "feminine," — i.e.,  it  may  occur 
after  an  accented  or  an  unaccented  syllable.  Note  the 
pauses  in  the  following  extract  from  Paradise  Lost,  3. 
80  ff . :  — 

"  Only  begotten  son,  |  see'st  thou  what  rage  1 
Transports  our  adversary,  |  whom  no  bounds 
Prescribed,  |  no  bars  of  hell,  |  nor  all  the  chains 
Heap'd  on  him  there,  |  nor  yet  the  main  abyss 
Wide  interrupt  can  hold,  |  so  bent  he  seems 
On  desperate  revenge,  |  that  shall  redound 
Upon  his  own  rebellious  head?  |     And  now 
Through  all  restraint  broke  loose,  |  he  wings  his  way 
Not  far  off  heaven,  |  in  the  precincts  of  light, 
Directly  toward  the  new-created  world." 

In  the  third  line  there  are  two  pauses  ;  in  the  last  line 
there  is  none.    In  the  first,  the  pause  is  "masculine"  ; 

1  None  of  these  "  run-on  "  lines  is  a  "  weak  ending."  Example  of  such 
a  weak  ending  is  (  Tempest,  I.  2)  :  — 

"  Thy  father  was  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power." 

Here  we  approach  the  freedom  of  prose. 


POETICS. 


in  the  second,  "feminine."  The  pause  can  even  come 
in  the  first  foot,  halving  it :  — 

"  Not  to  me  returns 
Day,  |  nor  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn.'"  —  3.  42. 

Or  in  the  last  foot  :  — 

"Where  no  shadow  stays 
Thy  coming  and  thy  soft  embraces  ;  |  he,"  etc.  —  4.  470. 

Schipper  notes  that  in  lyric  verse,  and  verse  of  four 
accents,  or  less,  the  sense-group  and  verse-group  gener- 
ally (not  always)  coincide ;  while  for  verse  of  more  than 
four  accents,  the  sense-group  falls  within  the  limits  of 
the  verse,  —  as  in  examples  just  quoted.  —  Often  the 
pause  in  heroic  verse  has  an  exquisite  harmony  with 
the  sense.  Thus,  Mr.  Seward,  quoting  from  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  notes  such  a  use  of  the  pause  in 
giving  a  suspended  or  incomplete  image ;  and  also 
quotes  Milton  :  — 

"  Despair 

Tended  the  sick,  busiest  from  couch  to  couch, 
And  over  them  triumphant  death  his  dart 
Shook  I   but  delayed  to  strike." —  n.  480. 

§  5.  RIME. 

Our  oldest  English  verse  depended  for  its  rhythm  on 
the  recurrence  of  accented  syllables  ;  the  number  or 
position  of  the  light  syllables  was  not  strictly  regulated. 
There  must  be  so  many  accents  in  each  verse.  But 
the  bare  recurrence  of  accents  was  not  enough  for  the 
ear,  especially  when  the  light  syllables  were  so  irregu- 
lar. It  was  hard  to  establish  the  unity  of  the  verse. 
Further,  there  must  be  something  to  afford  the  same 
sort  of  pleasure  that  was  given  to  the  Greek  by  the 


METRE. 


151 


quantity  of  his  syllables.  Germanic  verse  had  dis- 
carded quantity  as  a  metrical  factor ;  but  at  a  very 
early  period  it  must  have  taken  up  quality.  It  gave  to 
its  accented  syllables  Rime,  which  (a)  brought  new 
emphasis  to  the  accents,  and  (b)  bound  the  verse  firmly 
together  as  a  strict  unit.  In  Greek,  the  verse-accents 
agreed  in  quantity;  in  early  Germanic  verse,  they 
agreed  in  quality.  In  general  terms,  then,  rime  is 
where  two  syllables  or  combinations  of  syllables,  agree 
in  the  quality  of  their  sounds.  But  this  agreement  is 
of  different  kinds  ;  and  in  treating  rime,  we  must  make 
a  distinction  between  our  earliest  (Anglo-Saxon)  verse 
and  that  of  •  later  times.  In  regard  to  the  former,  we 
note  that  rime  was  confined  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
verse  ;  that  it  affected  the  beginning,  and  not  as  now  the 
end,  of  syllables ;  and  that  it  was  an  absolute  necessity 
of  verse,  —  whereas  now,  thanks  to  the  more  regular 
alternation  of  heavy  and  light  syllables,  and  the  conse- 
quent harmony,  we  can  often,  as  in  blank-verse,  dis- 
pense with  rime.  It  is  most  convenient  to  treat  the 
three  kinds  of  rime  separately. —  1.  Beginning-Rime. — 
This  is  commonly  known  as  Alliteration,  but  the 
term  misleads  us,  and  makes  us  think  it  something  dif- 
ferent from  rime.  The  initial  sounds  of  two  syllables 
agree  in  quality  of  tone.  We  leave  the  details  of 
Anglo-Saxon  verse  to  be  discussed  later,  and  for  the 
present  look  at  beginning-rime  in  itself.  It  is  of 
great  antiquity.  Our  Germanic  ancestors  used  it  to 
make  still  stronger  the  already  word-accented  and 
verse-accented  syllables.  It  had  practical  uses.  In 
Chap.  I.  §  1,  we  noted  its  application  to  religious  and 
legal  ceremonies  ;  and  rimed  phrases  still  survive,  as 


152 


POETICS. 


"  man  and  mouse,"  "  bed  and  board/'  "  house  and 
home  "  ;  cf.  the  chieftains  Hengest  and  Horsa,  and  the 
riming  tribe-names  Ingaevones,  Istaevones,  Herminones 
(=  Irmin-).  It  is  seen  at  its  best  in  Beowulf;  Cyne- 
wulf  uses  it  with  masterly  effect.  With  the  conquest, 
Norman  minstrels  brought  in  end-rime,  already  familiar 
in  sacred  Latin  poetry,  and,  as  extra  ornament,  in  the 
native  verse ;  but  the  old  rime  still  flourished  here  and 
there.  Layamon  (about  1200)  employs  it  to  a  great 
degree  in  his  Brut ;  and  in  the  famous  Vision  concern- 
ing Piers  the  Plowman,  it  is  used  with  regularity  and 
force.  But  it  dropped  out  of  fashion.  The  old  rules 
relaxed  and  it  fell  into  anarchy,  or  became  a  mere 
accident  of  verse.  Chaucer  laughs  at  it  as  a  North-of- 
England  trick  (Prol.  Pers  one's  Tale) :  — 

"  But  trusteth  wel,  I  am  a  sotherne  man, 
I  cannot  geste  rom  ram  ruf  by  my  letter." 

In  1550,  Robert  Crowley  printed  Piers  the  Plowman, 
and  felt  compelled  to  explain  how  the  verse  "runs 
upon  the  letter."  This  noted,  he  says,  the  metre 
"  shal  be  very  pleasaunt  to  read."  Beginning-rime 
thus  became  a  mere  adornment  of  verse, — and  even  of 
prose,  for  Lyly's  Euphues  riots  in  "alliteration."  Early 
Elizabethan  lyric  poetry  is  full  of  it,  —  but  as  an  orna- 
ment, not  as  a  principle.  George  Gascoigne  tells  the 
poet  not  to  "hunte  a  letter  to  death."  Shakspere 
makes  Holofernes,  his  pedant  {Loves  Labour  s  Lost, 
iv.  2),  "something  affect  the  letter"  in  his  "extempore 
epitaph,"  because  it  "argues  facility."  In  modern 
times,  Swinburne  is  very  persistent  with  it ;  though  no 
one  will  quarrel  with  his  "  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of 


METRE. 


153 


rain."  It  is  best  not  to  thrust  beginning-rime  forward 
in  verse  ;  the  poet  should  let  it  often  lurk  in  unac- 
cented syllables,  —  as  in  Coleridge's  lines  :  — 

"  The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves, 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountains  and  the  caves.'"  —  Kubla  Khan. 


Rime  that  includes  both  beginning  and  end  of  the 
syllable  or  combination  of  syllables,  and  thus  makes 
the  agreement  absolute,  is  not  looked  upon  with  favor. 
This  " perfect  rime"  was  used  sporadically  by  Chaucer, 
and  is  still  popular  in  French  poetry ;  but  is  now 
entirely  foreign  to  English  verse.  2.  End-Rime.  — 
This  sort  of  rime  was  well  known  to  the  Latin  Hymns 
of  the  Church,  and  thus  crept  into  the  learned  literature 
of  Europe.  Rime  had  always  been  a  mark  of  the  (ac- 
centual) Latin  folk-poetry,  and  for  this  popular  quality 
it  was  adopted  by  the  church  ;  in  the  hymns  it  was 
combined  with  a  regular  metre,  i.e.,  strict  alternation  of 
heavy  and  light  syllables.  But  end-rime  was  not  un- 
known to  the  native  Germanic  verse;  cf.  the  "  Riming 
Poem  "  in  Anglo-Saxon  of  the  Tenth  Century.  It  was 
familiar  to  the  oldest  Latin  poetry.  In  the  Saturnian 
Verse  we  have  such  rimes  as  :  — 

"  Terra  pestem  teneto    salus  hie  maneto. 
Bicorpores  Gigantes    magnique  Atlantes. 

End-rime  occurs  even  in  classic  Latin  verse.  Wil- 
helm  Grimm  has  collected  {Proceedings  Berlin  Acad., 
185 1)  a  host  of  examples,  though  the  rime  is  often 
imperfect.     Rime,  therefore,  is  a  natural  quality  of 


154 


POETICS. 


verse,  not  the  invention  of  a  particular  race  —  e.g.,  of 
the  Arabs  —  as  was  once  supposed. 

The  Latin  hymn,  which  made  systematic  end-rime  so 
popular,  consisted  of  stanzas  of  four  verses,  mostly  of 
four  feet,  these  feet  having  each  two  syllables  with 
accent  on  the  second.  It  was  popular,  and  opposed  to 
the  traditional  quantitative  verse.  The  rimes  were 
often  in  pairs  ;  but  sometimes  took  in  all  four  verses. 
Since  each  verse  had  but  one  rimed  word,  and  that  at 
the  end,  the  accented  and  unaccented  syllables  alter- 
nated regularly ;  for  the  absence  of  rime  within  the 
verse  made  impossible  the  old  Germanic  freedom  of 
dropping  or  adding  light  syllables. 

Another  model  which  influenced  English  verse  was 
the  rimed  lyric  poetry  of  the  troubadours  and  Norman 
minstrels.  In  the  time  of  Henry  II.  all  the  western 
part  of  France,  Provencal  and  Norman,  was  under 
British  rule.  The  troubadours  and  singers  about  the 
court  of  their  countrywoman,  Eleanor,  invented  new 
forms  of  lyric,  and  in  every  way  spread  the  use  of  their 
rimed  verse.  English  poets  copied  this  foreign  lyric. 
They  took  their  old  native  verse,  shorn  of  its  beginning- 
rime,  or  else,  dragging  that  with  it,  cut  it  in  halves, 
joined  the  ends  by  rime,  and  so  produced  the  rimed 
couplet  —  a  bridge  over  which  English  verse  passed 
to  more  complicated  forms.  An  odd  mixture  of  Eng- 
lish and  French,  and  of  both  kinds  of  rime,  is  a  song 
to  the  Virgin  (end  of  Thirteenth  Century)  :  — 

"  Mayden  moder  milde, 
Oiez  eel  oreysoun ; 
From  shome  thou  me  shilde, 
E  de  ly  malfeloun." 


METRE. 


155 


"  Maiden  mother  mild,  hear  this  prayer ;  shield  me 
from  shame  and  from  the  evil-one." — Finally,  the  two 
kinds  of  rime  changed  places  in  English  verse.  End- 
Rime  became  a  principle  —  especially  of  lyric  poetry  ; 
Beginning-Rime  became  an  ornament. 

End-Rime  is  single  ("  masculine  ")  when  it  falls  on 
the  last  syllable  of  the  verse  :  sing :  ring.  It  is  double 
("feminine  ")  when  accent  and  rime  fall  on  the  penult ; 
cunning :  running.  Of  course  the  unaccented  syllables 
also  rime  ;  —  mostly  they  rime  perfectly,  as  in  the  last 
example.  The  accent  and  rime  may  fall  on  the  ante- 
penult;  or  there  may  be  two  accents  rimed  in  each 
case.  Example  of  first :  pitiful :  city  full ;  example  of 
second :  — 

"  Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew." —  Scott. 

Note,  in  this  last,  still  another  and  third  rime  in  the 
middle  of  the  verse, — send:  lend.  These  involved 
rimes  are  common  enough.  Cf  "  And  sweep  thro'  the 
deep  "  (Campbell)  ;  which  is  like  the  only  modest  end- 
rime  on  which  the  oldest  Anglo-Saxon  verse  could 
venture, — as  "frod  and  god."  Further,  "  Hark,  hark, 
the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings  ;  "  "  And  the  heart  that 
would  part  sic  love."  More  complicated  yet  is  Hood's  — 
"  Here  end  as  just  a  friend  I  must.''1 

But  rimes  must  not  clash  —  as  in  "teach  each."  The 
ear  must  decide  how  far  to  employ  rime.  As  a  rule, 
rime  must  fall  upon  an  accented  syllable,  though  some 
poets  have  broken  this  rule, — Wyatt,  for  example. 
Guest  quotes  :  — 

"  Right  true  it  is,  and  said  full  yore  ago, 
Take  heed  of  him  that  by  the  back  thee  claweth, 


156 


POETICS. 


For  none  is  worse  than  is  a  friendly  foe. 
Though  thee  seme  good  all  thing  that  thee  deliteth, 
Yet  know  it  well  that  in  thy  bosome  crepeth ; 
For  many  a  man  such  fire  ofttimes  he  kindleth, 
That  with  the  blase  his  beard  himself  he  singeth." 

Lines  2,  4,  5,  are  examples  of  rime  on  unaccented 
syllables.  Lines  6  and  7  are  examples  of  imperfect 
rime  on  accented  syllables.  This  last  is  called  Asso- 
nance.—  3.  Assonance  is  a  principle  of  verse  in  some  of 
the  Romance  languages,  as  in  the  CJianson  de  Roland, 
the  famous  French  epic.  It  occurs  in  Spanish  poetry. 
In  her  Spcviisli  Gypsy,  George  Eliot  imitated  "the 
trochaic  measure  and  assonance  of  the  Spanish  Ballad," 
—  as  in  Juan's  Song:  — 

"  Maiden  crowned  with  glossy  blackness, 
Lithe  as  panther  forest-roan? /ng, 
Long-armed  naiad,  when  she  dances, 
On  a  stream  of  ether  floating. 

As  in  the  above,  assonance  generally  deals  with  the 
vowels  alone,  and  hence  is  not  strictly  end-rime  :  cf. 
black-  and  danc-.  It  characterized  the  earliest  Latin 
poetry  of  the  church,  but  soon  gave  place  to  regular 
end-rime.  In  Germanic  literature  it  has  never  been 
more  than  an  accident  :  "  it  appears  only  here  and 
there,  and  really  only  in  the  form  of  imperfect  full- 
rime."  Marston,  in  one  of  his  satires,  makes  CEdipns 
rime  with  snufs  (verb),  and  unrip  with  wit  —  To  sum 
up  :  "  Alliteration  "  deals  with  initial  sounds  ;  Asso- 
nance with  the  interior  or  middle  sound  (vowel)  of  a 
syllable  ;  and  End-Rime  —  rime  proper  —  with  the  mid- 
dle and  final  sounds.    Perfect  Rime  —  i.e.,  of  all  these 


METRE. 


157 


sounds,  initial,  middle,  end  —  is  not  regarded  as  legiti- 
mate in  modern  English  verse. 

§  6.    BLANK  VERSE. 

We  saw  that  the  verse  which  depends  for  its  exist- 
ence solely  upon  accents  must  call  in  rime  as  a  neces- 
sary element  for  unity  of  structure.  This  rime  within 
the  verse  (alliteration,  chiefly)  yielded  to  the  new 
metrical  principles  which  informed  poetry  written  in 
greater  or  less  imitation  of  classical  models.  Regu- 
larity in  alternation  of  accented  and  unaccented  syllables 
gave  new  harmony  ;  rime  was  needed  simply  to  show 
the  end  of  the  verse.  In  lyric  poetry,  which  is  mostly 
in  stanzas,  rime  is  still  a  necessity.  But  for  the  flow  of 
epic  or  dramatic  verse,  rime  is  less  desirable.  Hence, 
a  total  dispensing  with  rime,  and  the  unincumbered 
gait  of  Blank  Verse.  While  blank  verse  approaches 
the  freedom  of  prose,  and  so  appears  very  easy  to  man- 
age, it  is  in  reality  the  most  difficult  of  ordinary  metres. 
Its  origin,  growth,  and  perfection  mark  the  modern 
period  of  English  poetry.  Imitated  from  the  Italian 
poets,  and  first  used,  in  any  notable  way,  by  the  Earl 
of  Surrey  in  his  translation  of  the  second  and  fourth 
books  of  Vergil's  JEneid,  the  fortunes  of  English  blank 
verse  were  soon  assured.  In  the  same  century,  the 
drama,  just  breaking  from  the  bonds  of  petty  Moralities 
and  Mysteries,  seized  upon  blank  verse  as  the  fittest 
instrument  it  could  find.  The  crude  efforts  in  Gorboduc 
soon  yielded  to  the  "  mighty  line  "  of  Marlowe,  the  first 
poet  to  handle  blank  verse  with  that  ease  of  stateliness 
familiar  to  us  in  his  greater  scholar,  Shakspere.  Then 
came  Milton,  and  the  epic  was  almost  identified  with 


i58 


POETICS. 


blank  verse.  Milton's  sweeping  charges  against  rime 
as  "the  invention  of  a  barbarous  age  to  set  off  wretched 
matter  and  lame  metre,"  and  as  "a  thing  of  itself,  to  all 
judicious  ears,  trivial  and  of  no  musical  delight";  his 
definition  of  true  metre  as  consisting  "in  apt  numbers, 
fit  quantity  of  syllables,  and  the  sense  variously  drawn 
out  from  one  verse  into  another"  (ef  §  4,  on  Rhythmi- 
cal Pause),  may,  with  certain  allowances,  hold  good  for 
stately  epic  and  for  dramatic  verse;  but  they  will  not 
hold  good  for  the  lyric.  Who  would  reduce  Milton's 
own  Lycidas,  or  his  Sonnets,  to  blank  verse  ?  Indeed, 
he  seems  half  to  admit  this  by  the  saving  phrase  "  in 
longer  works  especially."  Marvell,  On  Milton  s  Para- 
dise Lost,  praises  the  poet  for  scorning  to  "  allure  with 
tinkling  rhyme,"  and  recognizes  the  fitness  of  his  metre 
to  his  subject  :  — 

u  Thy  verse,  created  like  thy  theme  sublime, 
In  number,  weight  and  measure,  needs  not  rhyme."' 

There  was  later  a  slight  reaction  on  dramatic  ground. 
Dryden  set  the  fashion  of  writing  plays  in  rimed  coup- 
lets, after  the  French  custom.  But  in  All  for  Lore 
(the  only  play,  he  tells  us,  he  wrote  to  please  himself) 
he  came  back  to  blank  verse,  and  "  disencumbered 
himself  of  rime."  Blank  verse  is  to-day  regarded  as 
the  proper  measure  for  epic,  dramatic,  and  longer 
reflective  poems.  Exceptions  are  the  heroic  couplets 
of  lighter  epic,  like  Keats'  Endymion  (but  cf.  his  Hype- 
rion, with  its  splendid  Miltonic  cadences),  or,  for  these 
days,  Swinburne's  Tristram  of  Lyouesse,  with  its  memo- 
ries of  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander ;  the  stanzaic  nar- 
rative verse —  as  in  Childe  Harold;  and  the  short  rimed 
couplets  of  Scott  and  Byron. 


METRE. 


159 


In  thus  speaking  of  blank  verse,  we  have  supposed  it 
to  be  the  same  thing  as  unrimed  "heroic"  or  five-accent 
verse.  But  there  are  other  forms  of  rimeless  verse  ;  — 
besides  such  cases  as  the  four-accent  blank  verse  of 
Hiawatha,  there  are  imitations  of  classic  metres,  which, 
however,  cannot  be  said  to  have  obtained  a  very  sure 
foothold  in  our  poetry.  True,  Webbe  and  Puttenham 
looked  with  disfavor  on  rime,  and  Thomas  Campion 
broke  a  lance  in  the  defence  of  unrimed  lyric  measures. 
In  his  Observations  in  the  Art  of  English  Poesie  (1602), 
he  made  war  on  rime,  and  urged  poets  to  follow  classical 
models.  He  gives  examples  of  the  new  style.  There 
is  some  melody  in  his 

"  Rose-cheekt  Lawra,  come 
Sing  thou  smoothly  with  thy  beawties 
Silent  music,  either  other 
Sweetly  gracing.1' 

But  we  see  that  beginning-rime  slips  in  repeatedly : 
cf  further  his  so-called  "  Anacreontic  "  verses  :  — 

"  Could  I  catch  that 
Nimble  trayter, 
Skornful  Lawra, 
Swift-foot  Lawra, 
Soone  then  would  I 
Seeke  avengement." 

In  1603,  Samuel  Daniel  answered  with  his  Defence  of 
Ryme,  "  wherein  is  demonstratively  proved  that  Ryme 
is  the  fittest  harmonie  of  words  that  comports  with  our 
language."     His  views  have  prevailed.1     There  are 

1  The  famous  "  Areopagus,"  a  club  for  the  extinction  of  the  tyrant  rime, 
of  which  Sidney  and  Spenser  were  members,  could  do  nothing  for  their 
purpose;  and  Spenser  most  elaborately  confuted  his  own  theory.  There 


i6o 


POETICS. 


some  fine  rimeless  lyrics  in  modern  English  poetry, 
but  they  are  sporadic  :  Collins'  Ode  to  Evening  and 
Matthew  Arnold's  Rugby  Chapel  may  be  instanced  as 
two  different  types. 

The  main  thing  to  remember  is  that  the  success  of 
blank  verse  is  modern,  and  is  due  to  the  harmony  and 
regularity  brought  to  our  poetry  by  the  study  of  classic 
metres.  So  late  as  1600,  Thomas  Hey  wood  could  say 
that 

"  not  long  since  — 
.  .  .  there  was  a  time 
Strong  lines  were  not  look'd  after,  but  if  rime, 
Oh,  then  'twas  excellent.1' 

§  7.    THE  QUALITIES  AND  COMBINATIONS  OF 
SOUNDS. 

Sounds  of  the  human  voice  have  an  endless  variety 
of  shades  and  gradations.  Think  of  the  modulations 
of  spoken  words  by  which  we  express  grief,  joy,  threats, 
entreaties,  pain,  and  so  on.  The  sharp,  "  explosive  " 
consonants,  the  lingering  effect  of  the  liquids,  the  broad 
vowels,  the  thin  vowels, — all  these,  with  their  combina- 
tions, make  up  a  wonderful  material  for  the  skilful  poet 
to  work  with.  Such  qualities  of  sound  add  to  the  mere 
rhythm  of  poetry  what  melody  adds  to  the  rhythm  of 
music.  The  most  evident  use  of  these  qualities  lies  in 
the  imitation  of  natural  sounds.  This  may  be  confined 
to  words  —  like  "hiss,"  " cuckoo,"  "  murmur,"  "  buzz," 
"susurrus,"  etc.    Or  the  imitation  may  extend  to  more 

are  verses  by  Ben  Jonson  against  rime,  themselves  rimed,  in  which  he 
calls  it  "rack  of  finest  wits";  praises  Greek  as  "free  from  rime's  infec- 
tion " ;  and  ends  by  cursing  the  inventor  of  rime.  But  we  need  not  take 
the  verses  too  seriously. 


METRE. 


161 


than  one  word,  and  so  suggest  some  action  or  situation 
—  onomatopoeia.  Homer  has  a  line  which  resounds 
with  the  swell  and  surge  of  an  ocean  billow.  Shak- 
spere's  verse  — 

"  The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine  "  {Macbeth,  u.  2)  — 

does  not  so  much  imitate  as  give  a  distant  echo  and 
hint  of  tossing  and  storm-swept  waves ;  and  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  sea-beach,  far  below  the  speaker  who  describes 
it,  is  certainly  audible  in 

"  .  .  .  the  murmuring  surge 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes."  .  .  . 

—  Lear,  iv.  6. 

More  directly  imitative  is  Milton's  description  of  the 
opening  doors  of  hell :  — 

"  .  .  .  On  a  sudden  open  fly 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder  "  {Par.  Lost,  2.  879)  ; 

or  of  heaven  :  —  - 

"  .  .  .  heaven  open'd  wide 
Her  ever  during  gates,  harmonious  sound 
On  golden  hinges  moving1'  {Par.  Lost,  7.  206). 

Chaucer's  verse  about  the  monk  whose  bridle  men 
could  hear  "gynglen  in  a  whistlyng  wynd  "  as  he  rode, 
is  itself  full  of  the  breezy  morning.  A  comic  effect 
and  direct  imitation  are  reached  in  that  line  of  Ovid 
about  the  frogs  :  — 

"  Quamvis  sint  sub  aqua,  sub  aqua  maledicere  tentant." 

Metrical  effect  can  produce  onomatopoeia,  apart  from 
the  quality  of  the  sounds,  by  the  slow  or  fast  march  of 
the  syllables  :  cf.  the  verse  from  Vergil,  quoted  in  §  2, 


L62 


POETICS. 


or  the  hackneyed  lines,  from  Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism, 
about  Ajax  and  swift  Camilla.  In  that  same  poem,  we 
are  told  that  "the  sound  should  seem  an  echo  to  the 
sense."  This  is  true  in  general  terms.  But  a  per- 
petual imitative  jingle  would  reduce  poetry  to  the 
functions  and  virtues  of  a  parrot.  The  suggestion,  the 
hint,  must  lurk  in  the  background,  as  is  the  case  with 
all  the  great  poets.  Shakspere  rarely  used  direct  imi- 
tation ;  an  instance  is  the  "Double,  double,"  etc.,  of  the 
witches  as  they  stir  their  boiling  caldron.  But  some 
writers  go  so  far  as  to  insist  that  every  isolated  sound 
has  a  special  suggestion  and  meaning.  Somebody  has 
fancied  that  he  hears  a  rubbing  or  boring  in  the  sound 
tr ;  and  so  on,  to  the  wildest  nonsense.  As  Professor 
Whitney  says,  there  is  "no  natural  and  inherent  signifi- 
cance of  articulate  sounds."  Of  course,  he  would  not 
deny  direct  imitations  of  natural  sounds  ;  nor  would  he 
exclude  from  certain  combinations  the  quality  of  '  pleas- 
ant '  or  'unpleasant/  'sweet'  or  'harsh.'  It  is  the 
combinations  of  sounds  that  give  the  peculiar  quality 
to  a  verse.  Thus,  combinations  of  liquids  suggest  har- 
mony, beauty  :  — 

"  Morn,  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star, 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold.,,  —  Tennyson. 

"  stars  .  .  . 
May  drop  their  golden  tears  upon  the  ground.''1 

—  George  Peele. 

Sounds  difficult  to  utter  give  a  harsh  effect  to  verse : 
note  the  combinations  of  consonants  in  Milton's  famous 
line  from  Lycidas :  "Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of 
wretched  straw."  Even  liquid  consonants  may  be  rough 
when  combined,  as  in  this  verse,  or  in  the  "grate  harsh 


METRE. 


163 


thunder"  quoted  above,  with  sounds  which  are  hard  to 
utter.  A  crowding  of  light  syllables  may  be  combined 
with  this  harshness  :  — 

"  So  he  with  difficulty  and  labour  hard 
Moved  on,  with  difficulty  and  labour  he." 

—  Par.  Lost,  2.  1021. 

The  combination  of  sounds  in  a  verse  is  a  matter  for 
which  no  definite  rule  can  be  given.  It  is  not  even 
possible  to  say,  as  we  can  say  of  rime,  that  this  is  good 
or  that  bad.  "  Solvitur  ambulando."  Here  lies  the 
skill,  the  genius  of  the  poet  ;  and  no  rules  can  take  the 
place  of  a  poetic  ear.  The  poet  combines  sounds  with 
forcible  or  melodious  effect,  just  as  the  composer  puts 
together  his  various  notes.  The  "  cadence  "  of  poetry 
—  such  a  quality  as  in  Spenser  Mr.  Arnold  calls  "  flu- 
idity "  of  verse  —  is  easier  to  feel  than  to  explain.  Let 
us  take  two  stanzas,  each  in  precisely  the  same  metre, 
but  differing  in  cadence  as  a  jog-trot  differs  from  the 
pace  of  an  Arabian  charger.  Cristofer  Tye,  in  his 
metrical  version  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  says  :  — 

"  It  chaunced  in  Iconium, 
As  they  ofttimes  did  use, 
Together  they  into  did  come 
The  sinagoge  of  Jewes." 

Shelley,  Chorus  in  Hellas :  — 

"  Another  Athens  shall  arise, 
And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 
The  splendor  of  its  prime." 

Even  after  allowing  for  the  difference  in  the  subject, 
and  in  the  associations  called  up  by  each,  even  after 


164 


POETICS. 


setting  aside  any  advantage  one  may  have  over  the 
other  in  style,  there  still  remains  a  something  whose 
presence  in  the  versification  of  the  second  extract 
makes  poetry,  whose  absence  reduces  the  first  to  a 
dull  jingle. 

§  8.    SLURRING  AND  ELIDING. 

Slurring  is  a  term  used  by  writers  on  metre  to  de- 
note the  rapid  pronunciation  of  certain  light  syllables, 
and  is  commonly  applied  whenever  we  have  two  light 
syllables  to  the  stress  in  a  regular  metre  which  has 
normally  one  light  syllable  to  each  stress-syllable.  Thus 
Chaucer  :  — 

"  Of  Engeldnd,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende  ;  " 

or  Milton  :  — 

44  No  anger  find  in  thee  but  pity  and  ruth." 

Here  we  do  not  suppress  the  syllables,  we  simply 
hurry  over  them,  pronounce  them  rapidly ;  and  the 
poet  is  therefore  careful  to  use  for  such  a  purpose  those 
words  alone  which  allow  of  a  rapid  pronunciation. 
Slurring  is  a  common  license  in  poetry,  and  must  be 
distinguished  from  contraction,  where  a  syllable  is  to- 
tally suppressed  :  e.g.,  in  our  familiar  F 11  for  /  will,  or 
in  many  Shaksperian  words,  to  be  noted  below. 

Elision  is  where  the  final  (sounded)  vowel  of  one 
word  is  so  combined  with  the  initial  vowel  of  the  follow- 
ing word  that  the  effect  is  to  make  a  single  syllable  of 
the  two.  We  shall  note  this  license  more  particularly 
in  speaking  of  Chaucer's  metres  :  it  is  common  enough 


METRE. 


in  such  cases  as  Milton's  "the  infernal  doors" 
infernal ;  and  in  his 

"  HurPd  headlong  flaming  from  \\\e  ethereal  sky,1' 

when  there  is  also  a  case  of  slurring  in  ethereal.  It  is, 
perhaps,  possible  to  substitute  in  these  cases  for  elision 
a  very  rapid  slurring.  Where  elision  does  not  take 
place,  we  have  Hiatus. 


POETICS. 


CHAPTER  VII.— METRES  OF  ENGLISH 
VERSE. 

§  I.    GENERAL  PRINCIPLES. 

Having  considered  the  elements  which  make  up  our 
versification,  it  remains  to  treat  English  Metres  them- 
selves. The  task  is  not  easy.  There  is  an  infinite 
amount  of  contradiction  about  the  very  foundations  of 
our  verse.  Mr.  Ruskin  asserts  that  stress  "may  be 
considered  as  identical  with  quantity"  (preface  to  his 
Eng.  Prosody).  Mr.  Henry  Sweet,  while  granting  that 
accent  tends  to  lengthen  a  short  syllable,  and  lack  of 
accent  tends  to  shorten  a  long  syllable,  says  emphati- 
cally that  quantity  can  not  "be  identified  with  stress." 
The  union  of  quantity  and  accent  is  only  a  tendency ; 
and  Schipper's  statement  (quoted  on  p.  138)  may  be 
accepted  as  true.  In  all  cases,  we  should  base  a  metri- 
cal rule  on  observed  facts  ;  not,  as  the  late  Mr.  Lanier 
did  in  his  Science  of  English  Verse,  force  a  theory  on 
all  possible  facts,  whether  carefully  analyzed  and  tested, 
or  not.  Thus,  there  is  much  justice  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
statement  that  "the  measures  of  verse  .  .  .  have  for 
second  and  more  important  function  that  of  assisting 
and  in  part  compelling  clearness  of  utterance,  thus  en- 
forcing with  noble  emphasis,  noble  words,  and  making 
them,  by  their  audible  symmetry,  not  only  emphatic  but 
memorable"  ;  but  it  is  only  a  statement,  an  observation, 
—  nothing  upon  which  we  may  found  any  rule.  The 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


only  method  that  can  lead  to  good  in  the  study  of  Eng- 
lish verse  is  to  make  the  study  historical  and  analytical. 
Every  conclusion  must  be  based  on  a  careful  study  of 
facts. 

Then  we  have  this  difficult  matter  of  nomenclature. 
Certain  names  for  "feet"  in  classical  metres — iamb, 
trochee,  anapest,  dactyl  —  were  long  ago  applied  to 
English  verse.  But  every  one  knows,  or  ought  to 
know,  that  the  classical  iamb  or  dactyl  is  very  different 
from  the  iamb  or  dactyl  of  modern  poetry.  Is  it  right, 
then,  to  apply  to  verse  based  on  accents  a  term  which 
properly  applies  only  to  verse  based  on  quantity  ?  The 
answers  vary.  Some  say  we  may  so  apply  the  terms, 
bearing  always  in  mind  the  difference  of  the  two  sys- 
tems of  verse.  Others  propose  to  drop  the  old  terms, 
and  substitute  the  "rising"  foot  of  two  or  of  three  syl- 
lables (iamb,  anapest),  and  the  "falling"  foot  of  two 
or  of  three  syllables  (trochee,  dactyl).  Still  another 
class  propose  that  we  give  up  any  distinction  between 
iamb  and  trochee,  or  rising  and  falling,  and  in  all  cases 
begin  the  first  foot  of  the  verse  with  the  first  stress-sylla- 
ble. The  character  of  the  verse  will  then  be  regulated 
(i)  by  the  number  of  metrical  stresses  :  as  3-accent 
verse,  5-accent,  etc.  ;  (2)  by  the  presence  or  absence  of 
a  syllable  or  syllables  before  the  first  stress  ;  and  (3)  by 
the  number  and  distribution  of  unaccented  syllables  or 
of  pauses. —  In  marking  the  feet  of  a  verse,  some  writers 
use  upright  lines  to  denote  the  relative  stress :  thus, 
iamb  j|,  trochee  ||,  anapest  |||,  dactyl  \\\.  The  old  system 
is,  however,  retained  by  many  :  \j  _,  _  w,  w  w      _  w 

Of  these  three  answers,  the  advantage  would  lie  with 
the  last,  were  it  not  that  it  lacks  precision  when  we 


POETICS. 


apply  it  to  actual  verse.  If  we  retain  the  old  names, 
we  are  able  by  a  single  word  to  give  the  general  char- 
acter of  the  verse.  We  may  venture  the  decision  that 
while  it  is  productive  of  little  good  to  insist  on  precise 
terms  for  the  separate  feet,  we  are  justified  in  applying 
these  old  names  to  tlie  general  movement  of  the  whole 
verse.  We  need  not  waste  our  time  in  establishing 
such  results  as  Mr.  Spedding's  distinction  of  "quan- 
tity" as  a  dactyl,  and  "quiddity"  as  a  tribrach.  But 
we  shall  find  it  profitable  and,  in  the  present  state  of 
things,  necessary,  to  speak  of  iambic  or  trochaic  or 
anapestic  or  dactylic  verse  ;  —  though  in  regard  to  the 
last  Mr.  Swinburne  tells  us  {Studies  i7t  Song,  p.  68)  that 
"  dactylic  .  .  .  forms  of  verse  are  unnatural  and  abhor- 
rent "  to  the  English  language.  Our  chief  concern, 
therefore,  will  be  for  the  metrical  scheme  underlying 
the  verse.  No  one  can  read  Pope,  or  even  Shakspere 
and  Milton,  without  being  conscious  of  such  a  definite 
metrical  scheme.  In  the  so-called  "heroic"  verse  used 
by  these  poets,  the  reader  feels  that  the  general  scheme 
is  a  regular  alternation  of  light  and  heavy  syllables, 
opening  with  light  and  ending  with  heavy,  this  last 
stress  being  the  fifth  from  the  beginning.  Remember- 
ing that  quantity  has  only  a  general  and  "regulative" 
office  here,  and  that  accent  is  "the  grave  governour  of 
numbers,"  there  is  no  harm  in  calling  this  scheme 
iambic.  The  use  of  such  a  metrical  scheme  depends 
on  the  regularity  of  the  verse.  For  long  poems,  and 
for  those  which  follow  Pope's  advice  about  "smooth 
numbers,"  terms  like  iambic  or  dactylic  apply  very  well. 
But  a  great  mass  of  lyric  verse  is  difficult  to  bring  under 
definite  metrical  systems  ;  for  these  poems,  our  only  test 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


169 


is  to  count  the  accents,  and  note  the  number  and  distri- 
bution of  light  syllables.  In  Milton's  U Allegro,  out  of 
142  regular  verses,  86  have  the  iambic,  56  the  trochaic 
movement.  But  it  is  all  practically  the  same  metre. 
A  trochaic  movement,  by  the  way,  is  not  simply  a 
verse  which  begins  with  an  accented  syllable.  Such  a 
verse  is 

"  Scatter  the  rear  of  darkness  thin," 

but  it  is  iambic.    There  is  trochaic  movement  in 
"  Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before." 

But  all  "trochaic"  means  here  is  that  the  light  syl- 
lable of  the  first  foot  is  dropped. 

There  is  technically  a  change  of  movement  from  tro- 
chaic to  iambic  in  the  couplet,  — 

"  Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green ;  — 

but  it  is  a  very  slight  change.  Cf.  for  shorter  lyric 
work,  William  Blake's  Tiger.  —  We  conclude  that  the 
use  of  such  terms  as  iambic  or  trochaic  is,  for  these 
short  lyric  verses,  of  doubtful  advantage.  The  unit  of 
a  modern  verse  is  a  stress-syllable  together  with  one  or 
two  (rarely  three)  unaccented  syllables.  From  two  to 
(say)  eight  of  these  units  may  be  combined  to  form  a 
verse.  Verses  of  more  than  eight  "groups,"  or  "bars," 
or  "feet,"  cannot  easily  be  recognized  by  the  ear;  four 
and  five  are  popular  numbers.  Now,  when  each  of 
these  feet  contains  the  same  number  of  unacce7ited 
syllables  (it  must  have  one,  and  only  one,  rhythmically 
accented  syllable),  the  verse  is  regular.  When  the 
number  varies,  the  verse  is  irregular.  The  poem 
(JO Allegro)  just  cited  is  regular;  the  movement  is  a 


POETICS. 


regular  alternation  of  light  and  heavy.  So  with  blank 
verse,  as  a  general  rule.  But  there  is  a  great  mass  of 
irregular  verse  :  take,  e.g.,  Swinburne's  Chorus  from 

Atalanta  in  Calydon  :  — 

"  When  the  hounds  of  Spring  are  on  Winter's  traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain." 

No  one  will  deny  that  there  are  both  melody  and 
vigor  in  this.  No  exact  foot  is  adopted  as  unit ;  the 
verse  is  irregular  in  the  number  of  light  syllables ;  but 
there  is  an  undoubted  anapestic  movement.  There  are 
four  accents  to  each  verse,  and  in  the  third  verse  the 
first  "foot"  has  no  light  syllable  at  all. 

We  may  now  go  on  to  the  consideration  of  our  metres 
in  detail.  But  first  let  us  try  to  sum  up,  from  what  has 
been  said,  the  substance  of  English  metrical  principles. 
A  verse  of  our  poetry  must  be  looked  at  from  three 
points  of  view.  — 

I.  The  Metrical  Scheme.  —  The  poet  decides  — 
consciously  or  unconsciously  matters  not  —  that  he  will 
base  his  verse  on  a  certain  scheme,  will  give  it  a  certain 
movement.  It  makes  no  difference  whether  or  not 
other  schemes  now  and  then  are  suggested.  He  plans 
his  verse  as  an  architect  plans  a  building, — with  a 
general  idea  of  the  style  and  effect  intended.  The 
majority  of  his  verses  will  convey  the  impression  of  a 
definite  scheme.  This  scheme  he  may  follow  with 
great  fidelity,  or  with  great  license ;  but  he  cannot  in 
any  case  follow  it  absolutely.  First,  he  will  intentionally 
deviate  from  it,  in  order  to  give  variety  to  his  verse. 
If  his  scheme  is  iambic,  he  will  now  and  then  begin 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


171 


with  a  heavy  syllable,  or  take  a  similar  license,  such  as 
slipping  in  extra  syllables.  Secojidly,  he  involuntarily 
deviates  from  the  scheme  by  reason  of  the  laws  of 
language  itself.    So  we  come  to 

II.  The  Accent  and  Quality  of  Words.  —  The 
poet's  heavy  syllables  cannot  be  all  equally  heavy,  the 
light  cannot  be  all  equally  light.  Mr.  Sweet  gives 
the  proportion  of  stress  for  the  different  syllables  of 

2       3       7       5      1     6  4 

"  impenetrability  "  thus:  im-pe-ne-tra-bi-li-ty.  We  are 
not  here  concerned  with  the  finer  gradations  of  stress, 
but  recognize  only  three  :  primary,  secondary,  and  un- 
accented syllables,  —  or,  as  Ellis  terms  them,  strong, 
mean,  and  weak.  But  verse  is  constantly  forced  to 
accept  a  mean  accent,  now  as  strong,  now  as  weak ;  and 
so  the  strict  metrical  scheme  is  violated.  Here  we  see 
how  little  reliance  can  be  put  upon  "feet"  in  and  for 
themselves.  In  the  ballad  "  High  upon  Highlands  and 
low  upon  Tay,"  High  upon  is  a  so-called  dactyl ;  read 
"High  upon  a  golden  throne,"  and  on  is  a  metrically 
strong  syllable  equal  to  High}  Again,  the  quality 
(and  also  the  quantity)  of  words  can  vary  infinitely;  the 
same  metrical  scheme  may  be  filled  with  thin  and  short, 
or  with  full  and  long  sounds.  —  We  have  already  noted 
the  occasional  direct  conflict  of  word-accent  and  verse- 
accent  (cf.  p.  142). 

III.  Accent  and  Quality  in  the  Sentence.  —  As 
with  syllables  of  words,  so  with  words  of  a  sentence. 
"  It  is  a  mistake,"  says  Mr.  Ellis,  "to  suppose  that  there 
are  commonly  or  regularly,  five  stresses,  one  to  each 
measure "  (he  is  speaking  of  Chaucer's  verse  of  five 


201  202 

In  the  first  case  :  high  up-on;  in  the  second  case :  high  up-on. 


172 


POETICS. 


measures)  ;  and  this  is  correct,  if  we  take  the  point  of 
view  of  the  syntactical  or  rhetorical  accent.  In  reading 
verse,  we  often  run  lightly  over  four  or  five  syllables  in 
order  to  accent  a  prominent  word  with  special  force. 
A  great  many  of  Pope's  and  Dryden's  verses  have, 
rhetorically  speaking,  only  four  accents,  as  :  —  "  Which 
Jews  might  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore."  Often  there  are 
only  two  or  three  real  stress-syllables.  Mr.  Ellis  {Early 
Eng.  Pron.  1.  p.  334)  marks  the  stress  on  the  syllables 
of  the  six  opening  lines  of  Byron's  Corsair,  as  follows, 
the  relative  amount  of  stress  being  denoted  by  the 
figures  o,  1,  2  :  — 

10120002  12 
"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 

1         1  02000202 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless  and  our  souls  as  free, 

200       1       02       010  2 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 

0102     0      0020  2 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home  ! 

2       00       1        21000  2 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway,  — 

1202011  202 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey." 

Different  readers,  as  Ellis  remarks,  may  vary  in  some 
details  of  stress  ;  but  the  proportion  here  given  will  be 
preserved  in  the  main  by  every  one.  The  pause,  as  we 
easily  feel,  tends  to  divide  the  verse  into  two,  some- 
times three  groups,  each  of  wrhich  is  dominated  by  a 
chief  accent :  note  especially  lines  2  and  4,  which  re- 
semble the  favorite  "  balance  "  of  Pope  and  Dryden. 
Now,  the  strict  metrical  scheme  calls  for  02,  02,  02,  02, 
02 ;  to  this  the  last  line  comes  nearest.  But  the  nature 
of  spoken  words  is  such  that  this  scheme  can  never  be 
exactly  and  perfectly  realized.  When  we  say  that  a 
verse  has  five  accents,  we  mean  that  the  metrical 


METRES  OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


173 


scheme  calls  for  five  stress-syllables  ;  but  we  do  not 
expect  the  concrete  verse  to  show  five  strictly  equal 
stresses.  We  do  demand,  however,  that  the  concrete 
verse  shall  give  us  the  general  effect  of  five  stress-sylla- 
bles, shall  make  us  feel  the  uniform  metrical  scheme 
underlying  the  rhythm. 

Here,  then,  are  three  sets  of  claims.    It  is  the 

BUSINESS  OF  THE  POET  TO  MAKE  AN  EQUATION  OF  THESE 
CLAIMS,  THE  METRICAL  SCHEME  HAVING  THE  PREFER- 
ENCE ;  and  in  proportion  as  this  is  done  with  such  art 
that  we  feel  no  conflict,  no  clash,  by  so  much  does  the 
poet's  handicraft  approach  perfection. 

§  2.    ANGLO-SAXON  METRES. 

English  Metres  fall  into  three  groups  or  periods. 
The  first  period  is  the  Anglo-Saxon.  It  embraces  the 
interval  from  the  Germanic  conquest  of  Britain  in  the 
Fifth  Century,  to  the  Norman  conquest  in  the  Eleventh 
Century.  This  latter  date  is  not  exact.  Not  only  did 
the  old  metres  still  flourish  under  the  early  Norman 
kings,  but  they  were  used  as  late  as  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury. Still,  the  actual  period  when  our  poetry  knew  no 
other  metrical  rules  than  those  of  the  old  Germanic 
verse  ended  with  the  conquest.  The  high-water  mark 
of  this  old  poetry  is  seen  in  Beowulf,  in  certain  of  the 
"Caedmon"  poems,  and  in  the  graceful  verses  of  the 
poet  Cynewulf.  The  second  period  is  that  of  Transi- 
tion, and  ends  with  the  New  Learning  and  the  Italian 
influences  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  Chaucer  is  the 
one  great  name  of  this  period.  The  third  and  Modern 
period  begins  with  the  Earl  of  Surrey  and  with  Wyatt, 
and  reaches  its  greatest  height  in  Shakspere  and  Milton. 


174 


POETICS. 


The  characteristics  of  the  metre  of  this  our  own  period 
are  regularity  and  harmony,  a  stricter  ordering  of  light 
and  heavy  syllables,  proportion,  symmetry,  ease.  The 
main  characteristic  of  the  earliest  period  in  our  metre 
is  strength,  —  a  sort  of  breathless  vigor  :  the  accented 
syllables  are  the  chief  consideration,  and  they  are  em- 
phasized not  only  by  their  weight,  but  also  by  the  use 
of  beginning-rime.  For  the  period  of  transition,  we 
have  mingled  characteristics  of  both  the  other  periods, 
which  must  be  described  in  detail.  In  naming  Chaucer 
as  its  greatest  poet,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  he 
stands  much  nearer  to  our  own  period  than  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon.  His  versification  is  smooth  and  vigor- 
ous ;  it  is  the  language,  not  the  metre,  which  makes 
him  seem  so  removed  from  modern  verse.  But  the 
metres  before  Chaucer,  and,  to  some  extent,  after  him, 
were  not  of  the  modern  kind.  He  is  the  greatest  name 
in  the  English  poetry  of  his  period,  but  he  is  not  its 
most  faithful  representative.    He  stands  above  it. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Verse,  at  its  best  —  say,  as  in  Beo- 
wulf—  consists  of  two  half-verses,  which  maybe  said 
to  correspond  to  the  forward-and-back  of  the  old  dance. 
These  two  half-verses  are  firmly  bound  together  by 
beginning-rime.  It  is,  therefore,  a  mistake  to  print 
them  in  separate  lines,  as  was  done  by  the  first  editors. 
In  each  half-verse  there  are  two  strongly  accented  sylla- 
bles :  that  is,  —  a  reduction  from  the  old  dance-steps,  — 
four  to  each  verse.1    The  first  accented  syllable  of  the 

1  So  Rieger,  in  his  excellent  article  :  "  Alt-  und  Angelsachsische  Vers- 
kunst,"  Ztsft.  fiir  deutsche  Philologie,  VII.  I  ff.,  on  which  the  above 
rules  are  based.  It  is  fair  to  state  that  some  prominent  scholars  —  e.g., 
Ten  Brink  —  oppose  this  particular  statement,  and  insist  on  four  accents 
to  each  half-verse,  —  eight  in  all. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


175 


second  half -verse  is  the  rime-giver :  with  it  must  rime 
one,  and  may  rime  both,  of  the  accented  syllables  of  the 
first  half  verse :  but  the  last  accented  syllable  of  the  verse 
must  not  rime  with  the  rime-giver.  Alternate  rimes, 
however,  were  allowed.  The  following  table  gives  the 
allowed  rime-combinations  :  — 


a  ; 

•a\ 

I  a: 

:  x 

Beowulf  wses  bveme 

blsdd  wide  sprang. 

18 

a  ; 

■  b\ 

\'a: 

b 

thaer  set  /£ythe  stod 

fringed  j/efna. 

33 

a  : 

■  b\ 

1  b\ 

a 

tha  waeron  wonige 

the  his  waeg  writhon. 

2983 

a  : 

:x\ 

1  a: 

X 

Beowulf  mathelode 

beam  Ecgtheowes. 

1474 

X 

\a\ 

1  a. 

:  x 

hi  hine  J?a  aet^aeron 

to  Crimes  farothe. 

28 

As  to  the  quality  of  the  rime:  (1)  all  vowels  rime 
with  one  another,  on  account  of  the  smooth  breathing 
(spiritus  lenis)  ;  (2)  a  consonant  rimes  with  itself  alone ; 
further,  sp,-sc,-str  are  treated  as  single  consonants  :  sp- 
does  not  rime  with  st-  or  sc-,  etc.  (3)  Unaccented  syl- 
lables do  not  count  as  rime-bearers ;  thus  in 

"  ^ean  Guises       hti  him  i/ring-Dene  "  (116), 

hu  him  are  unaccented,  and  their  h  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  rime  of  the  accented  syllables. 

These  unaccented  syllables  may  (1)  be  omitted  be- 
tween the  accented  syllables,  as  in  the  line  last  quoted  : 
hean  hus-  are  each  accented  ;  so  with  Hring-Den-.  But 
no  half -verse  may  be  entirely  without  an  unaccented  sylla- 
ble. Further,  unaccented  syllables  may  (2)  be  added  to 
the  verse,  within  reasonable  limits.  The  favorite  place 
for  adding  unaccented  syllables  is  the  beginning  of  the 
second  half-verse  :  in 

"  carina  aengum    thara  the  hit  mid  /mmdum  bewand1'  (1462) 

there  are  five  such  light  syllables  before  the  rime-giver. 
The  rules  for  the  words  on  whose  root-syllables  the 


176 


POETICS. 


verse-accent  shall  fall,  are  too  detailed  to  be  given  here. 
In  general  it  may  be  said  that  the  accent  falls  on  the 
important  words  —  nouns,  emphatic  pronouns,  and  the 
like ;  and  that  an  emphatic  word  cannot  be  unaccented. 

The  accented  syllables  were  (in  recitation)  further 
marked  by  a  stroke  on  some  loud  instrument.  The 
importance  of  marking  these  four  accents,  the  careless- 
ness about  unaccented  syllables,  are  the  chief  character- 
istics of  the  Anglo-Saxon  verse.  The  presence  of  such 
unaccented  syllables  and  the  consequent  need  to  hurry 
over  them  so  as  to  come  to  the  strong  ones,  gave  a  sort 
of  irregular  but  powerful  leap  to  the  rhythm.  It  is  all 
weight,  force,  —  no  stately,  even,  measured  pace,  as  in 
Greek  epic  verse.  Our  old  metre  inclines,  like  our 
ancestors  themselves,  to  violence.  It  is  at  its  best  in 
describing  the  din  of  war,  the  uncertain  swaying  of 
warriors  in  battle;  —  a  verse  cadenced  by  the  crashing 
blows  of  sword  and  axe.  But  we  do  not  move  forward. 
As  was  pointed  out  when  we  spoke  of  the  parallelisms 
and  repetitions  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  diction  (p.  86),  there 
is  an  eternal  leaping  back  and  forth,  but  there  is  little 
actual  advance.  As  Scherer  says,  the  Germanic  nature 
was  fond  of  raining  its  blows  on  the  same  spot.  Often, 
however,  the  verse  has  an  admirable  effect, — as  in  the 
description  of  the  launching  of  Beowulf's  boat  (21 1-2 18). 

Our  early  verse  was  at  its  best  in  the  Eighth  and  the 
Ninth  Century.  Then  it  began  to  decline.  In  Byrht- 
noth  (993)  the  verse  is  here  and  there  corrupt,  though 
still  full  of  life  and  vigor.  End-rime  increases,  where- 
as in  the  older  verse  it  had  been  confined  to  short  forms 
like  "frocl  and  god."  Now  the  two  half-verses  began 
to  use  end-rime  as  a  new  connecting-link.     The  Rime 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


177 


Song,  one  of  the  poems  preserved  in  the  Exeter  codex 
(Tenth  Century),  uses  end-rime  not  only  thus  in  the 
half-verses,  but  it  also  often  binds  whole  verses  to- 
gether :  — 

"  gold  gearwade,    gim  hwearfade, 
sine  searwade,     sib  nearwade.1' 

Confusion  sets  in.  Poems  are  written  now  in  the  old 
verse,  now  with  end-rime  alone,  now  with  a  mixture  of 
both  systems.  Finally,  two  distinct  tendencies  emerge 
from  the  confusion.1  One  is  conservative,  and  restores 
the  old  rules,  which  had  fallen  into  neglect.  A  poem 
about  King  Edward,  written  in  1065,  is  correct  in  the 
old  fashion,  and  has  no  trace  of  end-rime.  The  other 
tendency  is  progressive.  Out  of  the  old  long-verse  it 
makes  two  short  verses  connected  by  end-rime, — the 
short  couplet.  A  geographical  difference  is  now  appar- 
ent. In  the  south,  where  Norman  influences  abound, 
there  is  a  disposition  to  count  the  syllables  and  make 
the  verse  metrical  as  well  as  rhythmical  —  if  we  may 
so  distinguish  these  terms.  In  the  north,  the  old  verse 
keeps  upper  hand.  Although  in  this  latter  case  the 
strict  rules  of  rime  and  accent-position  are  somewhat 
relaxed,  the  poets  are  careful  to  avoid  end-rime,  and 
sometimes  use  beginning-rime  to  excess,  thus  break- 
ing the  old  restrictions.  But  as  late  as  Chaucer's  time, 
the  poet  who  wrote  about  Piers  the  Plowman  is  practi- 
cally free  from  end-rime,  and  also  correct  in  his  use  of 
beginning-rime  :  occasionally  a  line  occurs  (Skeat)  like 

"  Tyle  he  had  jylver     for  his  ^awes  and  his  ^elynge,11 
but  the  verse  is  fairly  regular,  and  always  vigorous.  It 
is  a  sort  of  Indian  Summer  for  the  old  Germanic  metre. 

1  Schipper,  p.  76. 


178 


POETICS. 


The  Brut  of  Layamon  (about  1200)  though  earlier,  is 
far  less  rigid  in  adherence  to  the  old  rules  ;  it  breaks 
away  frequently  into  rimed  short  verses.  But  after 
it,  and  before  or  contemporary  with  Piers  Plowman, 
come  the  so-called  " alliterating  romances" —  William 
of  Palerne,  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight,  The 
Destruction  of  Troy,  and  others.  These  were  of  north- 
ern, the  Brut  of  south-western,  origin ;  and  the  latter 
betrays  the  Norman  influence  of  its  model. 

A  verse  or  two  from  Piers  Plowman  will  show  in 
more  modern  shape  than  Anglo-Saxon  the  swing  of  our 
old  metre  :  — 

"  In  a  somer  seson  •     whan  soft  was  the  sonne, 
I  shope  me  in  shroudes  •     as  I  a  shepe  were, 
In  habite  as  an  heremite  •     unholy  of  workes, 
Went  wyde  in  this  world  •     wondres  to  here  .  . 
...  I  was  wery  forwandred  •     and  went  me  to  reste 
Under  a  brode  banke  •     by  a  bornes  side, 
And  as  I  lay  and  lened  •     and  loked  in  the  wateres, 
I  slombred  in  a  slepyng  •     it  sweyued  so  merye.'n 

Prologue,  1-4,  7-10. 

The  first  line  breaks  the  old  rime-rule  of  Anglo-Saxon 
metres  ;  the  others  are  in  the  main  correct. 

§  3.    THE  TRANSITION  PERIOD. 

Even  so  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury we  find  the  great  Scotch  poet,  Dunbar,  writing  his 
longest  piece  —  The  Twa  Mary  it  Weman  and  the  Wedo 
—  in  the  old  "  alliterating  "  verse.  Although  his  long- 
est poem,  it  is  the  only  one  known  to  us  which  he  wrote 
in  this  metre.  Still,  he  preserves  substantially  the  old 
rules,  barring  a  tendency  to  overdo  his  "  alliteration." 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


179 


End-rime  is  practically  excluded.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  we  find  elsewhere  decided  changes  and  corrup- 
tions overmastering  the  Germanic  verse.  In  the  Brut, 
these  changes  and  corruptions  do  not  succeed  in  remov- 
ing the  main  features  of  Anglo-Saxon  metre,  although 
in  many  cases  end-rime  breaks  a  long-verse  into  a  rimed 
couplet  which  has,  or  has  not,  beginning-rime.  But 
this  exceptional  couplet  of  Layamon  becomes  regular 
and  sole  principle  in  King  Horn,  a  popular  romance 
dating  from  the  second  quarter  of  the  Thirteenth 
Century,  —  say  about  1240.  The  metre  of  King  Horn 
seems,  therefore,  to  be  the  old  verse  banishing  begin- 
ning-rime as  principle  and  assuming  end-rime  to  bind 
together  the  half-verses  into  a  couplet,  and  giving 
accent  to  syllables  previously  unaccented.  This  change 
was  helped  by  the  example  of  the  popular  French 
eight-syllable  verse  (also  in  rimed  couplets)  which  was 
introduced  about  this  time  into  our  southern  poetry ; 
but  the  two  systems  were  as  yet  not  identical.  The 
King  Horn  measure  is,  like  its  parent  verse,  free  to 
drop  unaccented  syllables,  while  the  French  verse  is 
more  regular.  Later,  the  two  systems  fall  together 
(the  French  predominating)  in  the  metre  of  such  poems 
as  Chaucer's  House  of  Fame  (about  1384).  —  For  license 
of  dropping  light  syllables,  cf. 

"  The  se  bigan  to  fldwe, 
And  Horn  Child  to  rdwe,"  etc. 

But  there  are  other  corruptions  of  the  old  verse.  In- 
stead of  splitting  one  long-verse  into  a  short  couplet, 
end-rime  binds  together  two  or  more  long-verses.  Be- 
ginning-rime thus  released  from  its  old  duties  grows 


i8o 


POETICS. 


erratic,  now  flooding  the  verse  to  excess,  now  disap- 
pearing altogether,  and  becoming  simply  an  ornament.1 
The  accented  syllables,  too,  sometimes  increase  to 
three  in  each  half-verse,  so  that  the  whole  verse  is 
practically  an  "  Alexandrine."  Such  corrupt  (that  is, 
corrupt  as  far  as  the  old  rules  are  concerned)  verse 
became  popular  in  the  Fourteenth  and  the  Fifteenth 
Century,  particularly  in  the  ballad  poetry.  Cf.  one  of 
Laurence  Minot's  political  songs,  written  before  1350:  — 

"Whare  er  ye,  Skottes  of  Saint  Johnes  toune? 
The  boste  of  yowre  baner  es  betin  all  doune ; 
When  ye  bosting  will  bede,2  Sir  Edward  es  boune  3 
For  to  kindel4  yow  care  and  crak  yowre  croune." 

We  notice  an  increasing  regularity  in  the  use  of  unac- 
cented syllables,  as  in  the  lyric  poems  of  this  period 
generally. 

Most  interesting  and  important,  however,  is  the  use 
of  this  old  verse  in  our  early  English  Drama.  "  The 
earliest  popular  productions  of  dramatic  literature,  like 
the  lyric,  gave  a  last  refuge  to  the  old  national  measure, 
although  the  latter  was  forced  to  share  its  privileges 
with  more  aristocratic  guests "  (Schipper).  The  old 
Moralities  and  Mysteries  let  their  ordinary  characters 
speak  in  this  metre  ;  while  "  Virginius,  Appius,  Con- 
science, Cambyses,  Venus,  Cupid,  and  such  distin- 
guished personages  conversed  in  formal  Septenary  or 
Alexandrine  (after  classical  models),  or  else  in  light, 
regular  couplets  "  —  (after  the  French).  Among  many 
other  old  plays,  the  already  (Part  I.  p.  65)  mentioned 
Every  Man  contains  much  of  the  old  metre ;  so  does 
our  first  English  comedy,  Ralph  Roister  Doister.  But 

1  Schipper,  p.  214.       2  'offer.'       3  '  ready.'       4  'prepare.' 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  1 8 1 

this  brings  us  almost  to  the  time  of  Blank  Verse  and 
the  modern  period ;  and  we  note  even  in  the  metre  of 
these  old  plays,  rough  as  it  often  is,  a  tendency  to  regu- 
larity and  precision.  Unaccented  syllables  are  omitted 
only  after  the  middle  pause,  or  caesura ;  and  in  every 
way  the  influence  of  the  now  popular  French  and 
Italian  measures  makes  itself  felt. 

The  last  stage  of  the  old  Germanic  rhythm,  before  it 
is  lost  in  the  modern  measures  of  the  Elizabethan  age, 
is  the  so-called  Skeltonic  Verse.  John  Skelton  (died 
1529)  employed  it  often  and  happily,  but  he  did  not 
originate  it ;  for  we  find  it  used  here  and  there  in  the 
old  Mysteries.  But  it  is  justly  associated  with  Skel- 
ton's  name.  He  wields  it  with  much  power  in  his  light 
humorous  pieces,  such  as  the  Boke  of  Phyllyp  Sparowe 
or  Colin  Clout  (a  satire  on  the  clergy),  and  in  his 
Morality  Magnyfycence  ;  indeed,  the  reckless  priest  was 
a  fitting  guide  and  comrade  for  this  spendthrift  metre 
which  finally  dissipated  the  last  inheritance  of  ancestral 
verse.  We  give  a  line  or  two  from  Phyllyp  Sparowe 
(description  of  Envy) 1 :  — 

"  He  frowneth  ever, 
He  laugheth  never, 
Even  nor  morowe ; 
But  other  mennes  sorowe 
Causeth  him  to  grin 
And  rejoice  therein. 
No  sleep  can  him  catche, 
But  ever  doth  watche,"  etc. 

This  restless  movement  is  quite  different  from  the 
couplet  in  King  Horn. 

1  Cf.  Guest,  p.  396. 


182 


POETICS. 


Finally,  we  abandon  all  influences  or  reminiscences 
of  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  verse,  and  come  to  what  must 
pass  as  its  modern  representative,  —  the  common  four- 
accent  metre,  variously  treated  in  a  host  of  ballads  and 
lyrics,  and  in  such  tales  as  Scott's  or  Byron's,  or  in 
Coleridge's  Christabel,  in  a  preface  to  which  the  poet 
announced  his  system  of  counting  accents  rather  than 
syllables,  as  a  new  kind  of  verse  ! 

Foreign  Influences.  —  Schipper  names  three  foreign 
metrical  systems  which  came  into  our  literature  during 
this  period:  the  Latin  Septenary ;  the  French  Shoi't 
Couplet;  and  the  French  A lexandrine.  —  In  late  Latin 
poetry  a  metre  had  become  common  which  consisted  of 
a  half-verse  of  four  accents,  the  last  accent  falling  on 
the  last  syllable,  joined  to  a  half-verse  of  three  accents 
with  double  (" feminine")  ending:  on  account  of  the 
seven  accents  of  the  whole  verse,  the  metre  was  called 
Septenarius.  It  was  furnished  with  end-rime.  Both 
in  the  church  hymns,  and  in  the  songs  of  wandering 
f<  clerks  "  who  strolled  from  nation  to  nation  secure  in 
their  common  language,  this  metre  was  very  popular. 
Cf.  the  following  opening  couplet  of  a  convivial  song 

(cf.  p.  52):  — 

"  Meum  est  propositum     in  taberna  mdri 
Et  vinum  appdsitum      sitienti  dri,"  etc. 

This  measure  was  soon  used  for  English  verse.  The 
Poema  Morale,  already  mentioned  as  a  sort  of  medieval 
Gray's  Elegy,  is  a  good  example  of  the  rimed  Septe- 
nary, though  the  trochaic  movement  is  dropped:  — 

"  Ich  am  nu  elder  than  ich  was  |  a  wintre  and  a  lore. 
Ich  wealde  more  than  idude  |  mi  wit  oh  to  be  more. 
To  long  ich  habbe  child  iben  |  a  wdrde  dnd  a  dade. 
The'ih  ibfe  a  winter  eald  |  to  jung  ich  am  on  rade." 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


183 


"  I  am  now  older  than  I  was  in  winters  (years)  and  in 
lore  (experience) ;  I  wield  (control  myself)  more  than  I 
did,  my  wisdom  ought  to  be  greater.  Too  long  I  have 
been  a  child  in  words  and  deeds  ;  old  though  I  be  in 
years,  I  am  too  young  in  counsel."  —  The  alternation  of 
accented  and  unaccented  syllables  is  observed ;  there 
is  occasional  "  slurring"  of  light  syllables;  the  general 
movement  is  prevailingly  iambic.  This  same  metre 
without  rime  is  used  by  the  monk  Orm  in  his  Ormu- 
lum,  —  a  sort  of  paraphrase  and  commentary  for  the 
gospels  of  the  church  year,  written  early  in  the  Thir- 
teenth Century.  Orm  is  more  regular ;  and  is  invaria- 
bly iambic.  This  rimeless  metre  of  Orm's  "  appears  to 
have  found  little  applause  and  still  less  imitation." 
The  Septenary,  split  into  two  verses  of  four  and  three 
accents  respectively,  is  very  popular  in  later  English  in 
the  " common  metre,"  and  in  ballads;  while  its  original 
form,  with  some  modifications,  is  retained  in  the  vigor- 
ous measure  which  Chapman  chose  for  his  translation 
of  Homer's  Iliad.  The  translators,  Golding  and  Phaer, 
also  employed  it.  We  find  it  frequently  in  modern 
poetry,  e.g.,  in  Byron's  verses  (which  are  not  to  be  split 
into  "common"  measure)  :  — 

"  There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes  away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull  decay : 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which  fades  so 
fast, 

But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone  ere  youth  itself  be  past." 

Here,  however,  as  with  Chapman,  the  rime  is  mascu- 
line. 

Of  indirect  Latin  origin,  but  taken  directly  from  the 
French,  is  the  Short  Riming  Couplet  of  four  accents, 


POETICS. 


noticed  above  as  having  much  influence  on  the  similar 
couplet  that  resulted  from  halving  the  old  native  verse. 
This  Riming  Couplet  of  eight  and  nine  syllables  (ac- 
cording as  the  rime  was  masculine  or  feminine),  and 
iambic  movement,  was  a  favorite  for  French  narrative 
poems.  Thence  it  found  its  way  into  English  poetry 
about  the  middle  of  the  Twelfth  Century.  In  the 
Thirteenth  and  the  Fourteenth  Century  this  verse  was 
constructed  almost  as  regularly  as  its  French  model, 
and  was  popular  throughout  England ;  although  the 
northern  poets  always  inclined  somewhat  to  the  free- 
dom of  dropping  or  adding  light  syllables.  It  is  no- 
where used  with  prettier  effect  than  in  The  Owl  and 
the  Nightingale  (south  of  England,  about  1250)  :  — 

"  Ule,11  heo  1  sede,  "  seie  2  me  soth  ; 
Wi  dostu 3  that  unwightes  doth  ? 
Thu  singest  anight  and  noght  adai, 
And  al  thi  song  is  wailawai.4" 

It  is  used  in  certain  religious  pieces  in  the  north  — 
with  considerable  license  —  and  in  poems  like  Bar- 
bour's Bruce  and  Wyntown's  Chronicle  of  Scotland. 
Among  southern  poets  who  adopted  this  metre,  we 
may  mention  particularly  Gower  (Confessio  Amantis) 
and  Chaucer  (House  of  Fame ;  Boke  of  the  Duchesse). 
The  general  tone  of  the  verse  is  iambic  ;  but  the  open- 
ing light  syllable  is  often  dropped,  and  "  hovering 
accent  "  is  freely  used.  The  peculiarities  of  verse  in 
the  individual  poems  cannot  be  discussed  here ;  they 
belong  to  the  special  study  of  middle-English  metres. 

Thirdly,  we  have  the  Alexandrine.  This  metre  of 
six  accents  was  early  imitated  from  the  French  ;  but 

1  She.       2  Say.       3  Why  dost  thou.       4  Alack-a-day. 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


was  at  first  used  (as  in  the  Chronicle  of  Robert  of  Glou- 
cester, about  1300)  in  company  with  the  Septenary. 
About  the  beginning  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  Rob- 
ert Mannyng  wrote  a  rimed  chronicle  of  England  in 
Alexandrines,  which  were  copied  from  the  verse  of  his 
model,  Langtoft's  French  Chronicle  of  England.  There 
are  six  accents,  with  a  pause,  commonly  after  the  third 
accent ;  and  often  rimes  are  given  to  the  half-verses  so 
formed  :  — 

"  Tourne  we  now  other  weys    unto  our  dwen  geste 
And  speke  of  the  Waleys    that  lies  in  the  foreste." 

This  metre  was  popular  both  as  here  printed  and  also 
in  the  lyric  stanza  of  four  verses  with  three  accents  to 
each.  Regular  Alexandrines  are  very  common  in  the 
Moralities  and  Mysteries,  and  in  other  poems,  even  in 
Elizabeth's  time:  e.g.y  Drayton's  Polyolbion.  The  great 
rival  of  the  Alexandrine  was  the  Septenary  :  in  Robert 
of  Gloucester,  as  noted  above,  the  two  were  used  side 
by  side.  This  combination  became  popular  in  the  Six- 
teenth Century,  and  was  called  by  Gascoigne  "poulter's 
measure,"  because  the  poulterer  "giveth  XII  for  one 
dozen  and  XIIII  for  another"  :  this,  of  course,  refers 
to  the  number  of  syllables.    Cf.  Surrey  :  — 

"  Layd  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were, 

I  saw  within  my  troubled  head,  a  heape  of  thoughtes  appeare.*" 

Gascoigne  calls  this  "the  commonest  sort  of  verse 
which  we  use  nowadayes  "  (sc.  1575). 

This  scanty  description  must  suffice  for  the  transition- 
period,  except  so  far  as  Chaucer  is  concerned.  Enough 
has  been  said,  however,  to  show  for  this  epoch  a  steady 
advance  of  metrical  principle  in  the  place  of  the  purely 


POETICS. 


rhythmical  nature  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  vefse.  By  this 
is  meant  the  increased  demand  for  proportion  and  regu- 
larity; the  loss  of  beginning-rime  as  factor  of  the  verse ; 
curbing  of  the  old  license  to  drop  or  add  light  syllables ; 
the  exclusive  use  of  end-rime.  Chaucer  is  really  a 
modern  poet,  even  in  his  metre  and  cadences.  But  in- 
asmuch as  the  Italian  studies  and  imitations  of  Wyatt 
and  Surrey,  the  change  to  a  language  practically  mod- 
ern, and  the  introduction  of  blank  verse,  all  make  the 
early  and  middle  part  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  the 
evident  beginning  of  a  new  period  of  English  Poetry, 
we  must  give  Chaucer  a  place  by  himself,  as  to  one 
who  anticipates  the  future.  The  popular  comparison 
which  likens  Chaucer  to  a  lovely  day  of  earliest  spring, 
soon  succeeded  by  the  old  frost  and  rain,  will  apply 
equally  well  to  his  metre. 

§  4.    CHAUCER'S  METRES. 

Chaucer's  metres  maybe  referred  to  two  systems: 
the  short  verse  of  four  accents  {Short  Riming  Couplet, 
mentioned  above),  and  the  so-called  heroic  verse  of  five 
accents.  Both  are  "  iambic  "  in  movement ;  the  heroic 
verse  being  more  strict  in  this  respect  than  the  short 
verse,  which  in  a  number  of  cases  begins  with  a  heavy 
syllable.  When  the  heroic  verse  seems  so  to  begin, 
Ten  Brink  would  assume  always  a  "  hovering  accent/' 
i.e.,  an  equal  division  between  the  claims  of  the  metre 
and  the  claims  of  the  word.  This  hovering  accent  of 
Chaucer  we  discuss  below ;  but  the  constant  practice 
of  English  poetry  is  to  allow  great  freedom  with  the 
opening  foot  of  an  " iambic"  verse,  and  after  the  pause, 
as  in  (Milton) 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


187 


"Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts.1' 

So  Chaucer  :  — 

"  Trouthe  and  honour,  fredbm  and  curteisie." 

Here  there  is  undoubtedly  transposed  accent,  and  we 
should  call  the  first  foot  " trochaic"  by  license;  /re- 
dout, really  a  compound  word,  may  have  the  hovering 
accent.  Further,  we  must  always  bear  in  mind  that 
not  a  single  "foot,"  but  the  combination  of  accented 
and  unaccented  syllables  in  a  whole  verse,  is  what  we 
chiefly  regard.  But  regularity  ■ —  not  monotony  —  is  a 
quality  of  good  metre  ;  hence  we  properly  call  Chau- 
cer's verse  "iambic."  The  short  verse  is  in  rimed 
couplets.  The  poet  used  it  in  his  earlier  work  {e.g., 
Soke  of  the  Duchesse)  ;  but  after  his  Italian  journey 
abandoned  it  for  the  heroic  verse,  returning,  however, 
to  the  old  metre  in  his  House  of  Fame.  Heroic  verse 
was  used  sporadically  before  Chaucer  ;  but  practically 
it  was  he  who  introduced  it  into  our  poetry.  In  his 
hands  it  became  so  flexible  and  powerful  that  it  has 
since  steadily  maintained  its  place  as  the  most  popular 
measure  of  our  verse.  He  uses  it  in  couplets  {Prologue 
and  many  of  the  Canterbury  Tales ;  Legende  of  Goode 
Women,  etc.)  and  in  the  strophe  (Troilus ;  Mo7ikes  Tale). 
Epic  rimed  verse  tends  to  be  more  regular  than  dra- 
matic verse,  on  account  of  the  freedom  of  recitation  in 
the  latter ;  more  regular  than  blank  verse  in  general, 
because  rime  promotes  uniformity.  Chaucer's  verse, 
therefore,  if  compared  with  Shakspere's  or  Milton's,  is 
eminently  smooth.  Yet  the  person,  who  unprepared 
tries  to  read  Chaucer,  will  not  be  disposed  to  agree  with 
such  a  statement.    By  observing  the  following  rules, 


i88 


POETICS. 


however,  one  will  find  a  music  and  breadth  of  harmony 
in  Chaucer's  verse  not  surpassed  by  any  English  poet 
except  perhaps  the  two  named  above. 

Difficulties  in  the  scansion  of  Chaucerian  metres  are 
to  be  referred  (a)  to  the  words  themselves  or  (b)  to 
their  connection.  Then,  too,  we  carry  our  silent  letters 
and  syllables  into  Fourteenth-Century  English  ;  where- 
as we  should  (as  in  modern  German)  carefully  sound 
final  e  and  final  -es,  -ed>  etc.  Exceptions  are  noted 
below. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  and  older  inflexional  syllables  had 
become  greatly  weakened  in  Chaucer's  time  ;  but,  with 
some  exceptions,  they  were  not  yet  lost  or  silent.  Thus 
the  infinitive  ending  -an  had  weakened  to  -en,  then,  in 
many  cases,  to  -e.  The  full  vowels  (a,  o,  n)  were  like- 
wise mostly  weakened  to  -e.  This  weak  -e  was  either 
sounded,  shirred,  or  silent.  It  was  (when  final)  sounded 
in  the  plural  of  attributive  adjectives  ;  in  definite  ad- 
jectives ;  in  the  infinitive  mood ;  in  adverbs ;  in  the 
dative  singular  of  nouns.  It  was  silent  in  the  pronouns 
hire,  onre,  youre>  here,  myne,  tJiyne  ;  thise,  some;  in  strong 
past-participles  where  n  is  dropped:  write;  in  before, 
there,  heere.  Note,  further,  that  the  above  -e  is  unac- 
cented and  follows  the  primary  word-accent.  In  other 
cases,  —  i.e.,  not  covered  by  the  above  words  where  it  is 
silent,  or  by  the  kinds  of  word  which  always  sound  it, — 
weak  e  final  following  the  primary  word-accent  is  some- 
times sounded,  sometimes  silent.  It  is  not  unreasonable 
to  allow  Chaucer  the  freedom  in  this  respect  which  is  so 
common  in  German  poetry.  While  for  nouns  the  gen- 
eral rule  holds  that  final  -e  is  more  likely  to  be  silent  in 
words  derived  from  the  French  than  in  native  words, 


METRES   OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


still  we  find  Chaucer  using  a  good  English  word  like 
love  now  as  one  syllable,  now  as  two.  Exactly  so 
with  German  :  Liebe  is  normally  of  two  syllables  ;  but 
Scheffel  can  say,  "  O  Lieb',  wie  bist  du  bitter !  " 

When  weak  e  is  not  final,  it  is  mostly  pronounced  in 
such  cases  as  floures,  liiel>  comen>  etc.  But  it  is  also,  in 
many  cases,  slurred,  —  i.e.,  a  syllable  is  so  rapidly  passed 
over  and  brought  so  close  to  its  neighbor,  that  the  two 
syllables  have  metrically  the  value  of  only  one.  So 
that  in  many  cases  we  are  free  to  sound  separately,  or 
to  slur,  as  the  verse  demands.  This  holds  good  of 
plurals  in  -es ;  of  verbs  in  -en>  -est,  -cth ;  of  nouns  ending 
in  -el,  -en,  -er,  etc.    Thus  e  is  slurred,  e  is  silent,  in 

44  And  thinketh  '  Here  cometh  my  mortel  enemy.'  " 
44  And  forth  we  riden  a  litel  more  than  paas," 

although  in  the  first  verse  the  slurring  really  amounts 
to  contraction  :  think' th,  coin  th.  —  For  e  sounded,  cf. 
44  In  thilke  colde  frosty  regioun.'1 

This  slurring  is  common  where  liquid  consonants  are 
concerned  :  stoln,  born,  loveres,  etc. 

When  two  syllables  come  together,  each  containing 
an  unaccented  e,  one  of  these  is  slurred,  or  else  may 
become  silent.     Slurred  in  lovede,  silent  in  huntede,  in 

"  To  ryden  out,  he  lovede  chyvalrye." 

44  How  Atthalaunte  1  huntede  the  wilde  boor." 

Also,  when  a  syllable  unaccented,  but  capable  of 
bearing  accent,  is  followed  by  an  unaccented  e,  the 
latter  is  slurred  or  silent  :  loveres,  pilgrimes.  After  a 
secondary  word-accent,  e  is  sometimes  sounded,  some- 

1  Cf.  under  Elision. 


190 


POETICS. 


times  slurred  or  silent :  emperoures,  me'surdble.  Unac- 
cented e  between  primary  and  secondary  accent  is 
mostly  sounded  :  thus  enemy,  —  and  cf. 

"  The  pikepurs  and  eek  the  pale  drede." 

In  every,  on  the  contrary,  the  second  e  is  always  silent. 
Other  vowels  than  e  may  be  slurred.    So parisshe: — 
"  Wyd  was  his  parisshe  and  houses  fer  asonder." 

So  charitable,  naturally,  amorously.  Contractions,  how- 
ever, occur ;  benedicite  and  Jerusalem  have  each  only 
three  syllables  with  Chaucer;  aventure  =  aunter ; 
whether  =  wher,  etc. 

Thus,  with  the  general  rule  that  all  vowels  are 
sounded,  we  have  cases  where,  for  grammatical  reasons, 
a  weak  vowel  is  silent,  or  else  is  so  situated  that  it  may 
be  sounded  or  slurred  according  as  the  metre  demands. 
But  there  is  another  freedom  of  equal  importance  with 
slurring :  Elision.  This  is  when  a  final  vowel  is  silent 
before  the  vowel  which  begins  the  following  word  :  — 

"  Thestaat,  tharray,  the  nombr^  #nd  eek  the  cause.''' 

Elision  may  often  take  place  before  // :  in  he,  his,  etc.  ; 
the  verb  have  ;  honour^  humble,  etc. :  — 

"  That  in  that  grow  he  wold*?  him  hyd^  al  day." 
But  even  this  h  may  prevent  elision  :  compare 

"  Wei  cowde  he  fortunen  th^  ascendent.1' 

Where  the  two  vowels  do  not  coalesce,  we  have  Hiatus, 
—  mostly  after  a  pause,  or  for  sake  of  emphasis  —  as  in 

"  Withouten  doufc?,  it  may  stonde  so.*" 
"  Purs  is  th£  ^rcedeknes  helle,  quod  he." 


METRES   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE.  I9I 

Of  course,  when  final  e  is  accented,  it  is  not  liable  to 
elision, — e.g.,  pitde. —  Finally,  we  have  the  contraction 
of  two  words  into  one  —  often  indicated  by  the  spell- 
ing :  as  not  for  ne  wot  (know  not)  ;  nadde  =  ne  hadde ; 
this  ^=  this  is. 

Before  leaving  this  subject  it  is  well  again  to  remind 
the  reader  of  the  importance  attached  to  slurring.  It 
is  pedantic  to  refuse  Chaucer  a  license  claimed  by  every 
English  poet,  —  even  by  so  exact  a  versifier  as  Pope ; 
and  what  may  seem  corrupt  to  mere  syllable-counting 
will  become  harmonious  verse  by  the  use  of  this  free- 
dom. Cf.  Shaks.  All's  Well,  n.  2  :  — 
"  To  entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool." 
Chaucer :  — 

"  I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  mery  a  companye." —  Prol.  C.  T.  764. 
So  Milton  :  — 

"  No  anger  find  in  thee,  but  pity  and  ruth." 

The  Rhythm.  —  To  make  verse-accent  and  word- 
accent  fall  on  the  same  syllable  is  the  general  principle 
of  Germanic  metres.  Chaucer  observes  this  rule ;  but, 
like  all  great  poets,  he  avoids  any  see-saw  effect ;  he 
does  not  construct  his  poetry  by  the  foot,  but  by  the 
verse ;  and  he  aims  at  a  wider  harmony  than  the  tick- 
ing of  a  clock.  His  rhetorical  accent  seldom  clashes 
with  the  rhythm  of  his  verse ;  while  to  prove  every  foot 
a  perfect  {y  —)  is  impossible.  Attentively  consider  the 
verse  :  — 

"  That  if  gold  ruste,  what  schuld^  yren  doo?"  (C  T.  500), 

and  the  force  of  the  above  statement  will  be  evident. 
The  rhetorical  accent  and  the  general  rhythm  of  the 


I Q2 


POETICS. 


verse  agree  ;  the  strict  metrical  scheme  of  regularly 
alternating  light  and  heavy  syllables  will  not  apply. 
But  the  line  is  still  "  iambic "  in  movement,  just  as 
Milton's  "  Universal  reproach,  far  worse  to  bear"  is 
"  iambic,"  despite  two  so-called  "  trochees  "  at  the  start. 

As  to  word-accent,  we  must  here  note  the  peculiarity 
of  Chaucerian  verse  alluded  to  above,  called  "  Hovering 
Accent  "  (Schwebende  Betonung).  Many  words,  mostly 
of  Romance  origin,  were,  it  is  true,  pronounced  with 
the  stress  (probably  a  slight  one)  now  on  one,  now  on 
another,  syllable:  honour,  honour;  pitee,  pitee ;  etc.  Cf 
goddesse  in  :  — 

44 1  not  whether  (  =  \vher)  sche  be  womman  or  goddesse11  (rimes 
with,  gesse)  (C.  T.  uoi), 

and :  — 

44 1  mene  nought  the  goddesse  Dyane."  —  C.  T.  2063. 

So,  also,  Romance  words  in  -age,  -ance,  -ence,  etc. 
This  freedom  of  word-accent  was  probably  not  so  great 
as  it  seems.  The  first  two  syllables  of  goddesse  were 
pronounced  with  nearly  equal  accent.  But  still  more 
emphatic  was  the  license  allowed  in  the  Hovering 
Accent ;  here  no  help  comes  from  the  word  itself.  It 
demands  one  accent,  the  verse  another.  Compromise 
results  in  an  equal  stress  on  both  syllables, — a  sort  of 
"spondee."  Thus  in  a  line  quoted  above:  a  How  At- 
thalaiint^  huntede  the  wi'lde  boor,"  the  word-accent  is 
on  hunt,  the  verse-accent  on  ed'e.  Result  is  hovering 
accent.  Cf  "The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep." 
(Gray.) 

Rime.  —  End-rime  is  the  rule;  considerable  allitera- 
tion occurs.    Owing  to  the  inflexional  syllables,  there 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


193 


is  an  abundance  of  "feminine  "  or  double  rimes,  thus 
adding  variety  and  melody  to  the  verse.  A  peculiarity 
of  Chaucer's  rime  is  that  two  words  identical  in  form 
rime  with  each  other,  provided  they  differ  in  meaning 
(see  §  5,  Chap.  VI.,  on  Perfect  Rime)  ;  seeke  (to  seek)  : 
seeke  (sick).  The  rimes  are  useful  in  proving  grammati- 
cal points  :  thus  from  the  rimes  Rome:  to  me ;  allow  the: 
youthe,  we  know  that  final  e  must  have  been  sounded. 

Verse. — We  have  yet  to  note  the  variety  introduced 
in  Chaucer's  verse  by  his  skilful  use  of  pauses.  His 
verse  is  regular  :  technical  licenses  are  rare,  as,  when 
the  light  syllables  disappear  from  a  "foot  "  leaving  but 
one  (heavy)  syllable  (e.g.,  Al  |  bysmotered  with  his  ha- 
bergeoun),  or  when  the  said  foot  has  two  light  syllables 
instead  of  one  {e.g.,  Of  Eng'elond,  to  Canterbury  they 
wende).  Most  cases  of  the  latter  kind  may  be  rectified 
by  "slurring"  {e.g.,  For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his 
herte ;  and  the  last  example).  But  his  pauses  show 
variety  and  skill.  Ten  Brink  notes  four  principal 
varieties  of  the  Chaucerian  "  ccesura" :  (1)  after  the 
fourth  accented  syllable  (masculine ;  i.e.,  the  accent 
falls  on  the  syllable  immediately  preceding  the  pause)  ; 
(2)  after  the  fifth  syllable,  the  accent  falling  on  fourth 
(feminine) ;  (3)  after  the  sixth  accented  syllable  (mas- 
culine) ;  (4)  after  the  seventh,  accent  falling  on  sixth 
(feminine).    Examples  :  — 

(1)  44  Benign^  he  was  |  and  wonder  diligent.1' 

(2)  44  Ful  worthi  was  he  |  in  his  lordes  werre." 

(3)  "  With  him  ther  was  his  som?  [  a  yong  Squyer." 

(4)  44  The  holy  blisful  martir  |  for  to  seeke." 

Double  caesura  often  occurs  :  — 

*4  With  grys  |  and  that  the  fyneste  |  of  a  iond.  '; 


194 


POETICS. 


Chaucer  is  very  careful  about  the  variety  of  his  metre ; 
he  does  not  employ  so  many  "end-stopt  "  lines  as  to  be 
monotonous,  nor  does  he  entirely  break  up  the  integrity 
of  his  verse-system  by  constant  " run-on"  lines;  note 
the  skilful  mingling  of  pauses  with  both  "  end-stopt" 
and  "  run-on  "  lines  in  the  following  :  — 

'  1  A  knight  there  was,  |  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  from  the  tyme  |  that  he  first  began 
To  r£den  out,  |  he  ldvede  chj  valne, 
Trouth^  and  honour,  |  fredom  and  curteisie. 
Ful  worthi  was  he  |  in  his  lordes  werre, 
And  therto  hadd^  he  nden,  |  noman  ferre,1 
As  wel  in  Cnstendom  |  as  in  hethenesse, 
And  evere  honoured  |  for  his  worthinesse." 

Chaucer  uses  the  end-stopt  lines  far  more  in  his  short 
couplets  than  in  his  heroic  verse  ;  for  the  latter,  by  its 
length,  gives  opportunity  for  variety  by  means  of  groups 
within  the  verse  limits. 


Further  particulars  about  Chaucer's  verse  should  be 
sought  in  Ten  Brink's  Chaucer  s  Sprache  una1  Verskunst, 
and  in  Ellis'  Early  English  Pronunciation ;  while,  for 
his  language,  every  student  of  Chaucer  should  become 
familiar  with  Professor  Child's  admirable  essay,  —  on 
which  all  Chaucer  work  in  this  field  is  now  based,  — 
perhaps  most  accessible  in  Part  I.  of  Ellis'  above-quoted 
work.  —  After  Chaucer,  the  five-accent  verse  was  used 
by  his  scholars,  Occleve  and  Lydgate ;  by  Stephen 
Hawes,  Barclay,  Henrysoun  ("  Chaucer's  brightest 
scholar"),  Dunbar,  Douglas,  and  Lyndesay.  With  the 
Earl  of  Surrey  and  the  rise  of  Blank  Verse,  we  come  to 
our  modern  epoch. 

i  "  Farther." 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  195 

§  5.    MODERN  METRES. 

The  first  part  of  TotteVs  Miscellany  (1557)  gives  a 
number  of  shorter  poems  by  Surrey  and  Wyatt ;  and  a 
few  more  of  them  are  added  towards  the  end  of  the 
book.  Of  the  40  poems  attributed  to  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  all  are  iambic  in  movement,  and  21  are  five- 
accent  (the  so-called  "  heroic  pentameter");  9  are  in 
the  Poulter's  Measure  (Septenary  alternating  with  Al- 
exandrine) ;  6  are  regular  four-accent ;  3  are  regular 
three-accent ;  and  1  has  a  stanza  made  up  of  a  quatrain 
in  ballad-measure,  —  i.e.,  the  Septenary  split  into  a  four- 
accent  and  a  three-accent  verse,  by  the  riming  of  the 
pauses  in  successive  verses,  —  with  a  couplet  in  four- 
accent,  and  a  single  concluding  five-accent  verse  :  e.g.:  — 

"  O  happy  dames  that  may  embrace 
The  frute  of  your  delight, 
Help  to  bewail  the  wofull  case, 
And  eke  the  heavy  plight 
Of  me  that  wonted  to  rejoyce 
The  fortune  of  my  pleasant  choyce : 
Good  Ladies,  help  to  fill  my  moorning  voyce." 

As  far  as  metre  is  concerned,  this  is  quite  the  mod- 
ern lyrical  manner.  —  Of  the  96  assigned  to  Wyatt, 
practically  all  are  iambic  ;  70  are  five-accent ;  16  are  in 
four ;  5  are  in  three ;  2  are  in  Poulter's ;  1  is  in  four 
and  three ;  1  is  in  five  and  three ;  and  one  is  quite  ir- 
regular (p.  223).1 

This  shows  what  is  meant  by  naming  Surrey  and 
Wyatt  as  the  earliest  poets  of  our  modern  period.  We 
see  how  great  a  favorite  the  five-accent  verse  with 
iambic  movement  is  growing  in  English  lyric  poetry. 

1  Arber's  Reprint. 


I96  POETICS. 

As  to  iambic  movement,  George  Gascoigne,  nearly 
twenty  years  later,  in  his  Certayne  Notes  of  Instruction 
in  English  Verse,  laments  that  "wee  are  fallen  into 
suche  a  playne  and  simple  manner  of  wryting,  that 
there  is  none  other  foote  used  but  one."  Of  course, 
however,  lyric  poetry  knew  other  movements  —  as,  for 
example,  the  trochaic  measures  of  Greene,  Barnefield, 
Constable,  Sir  P.  Sidney,  and  others  :  thus,  the  latter' s 
Serenade  (cf  p.  81)  from  his  Astrophel  and  Stella:  — 

"  Who  is  it  that  this  dark  night 
Underneath  my  window  plaineth  ? 
//  is  one  who  from  thy  sight, 
Being,  ah !  exited,  disdaineth 
Every  other  vulgar  light y  1 

This  four-accent  verse,  in  couplets,  with  prevailing  tro- 
chaic movement,  became  popular,  and  is  familiar  to  us 
in  Greene,  e.g.,  Philomela  s  Ode ;  in  such  songs  as  that 
from  the  Passionate  Pilgrim  ("  As  it  fell  upon  a  day  In 
the  merry  month  of  May ")  ;  in  The  Phoenix  and  the 
Turtle ;  and  in  Shakspere,  e.g.,  the  song  in  Loves  Lab. 
Lost,  iv.  3  (also  printed  in  Passion.  Pil.)  :  "  On  a  day, 
alack  the  day,"  etc. 

But  the  iambic  movement  was  overwhelmingly  the 
prevailing  measure.  The  verse  varied  in  its  number  of 
accents.  As  we  saw  in  Surrey's  case,  the  Septenary 
was  split  into  four-and-three ;  when  the  ending  of  the 
original  was  feminine,  and  the  rhythmic  pause  mascu- 
line, we  have  alternate  single  and  double  rimes, — e.g., 
in  Puttenham's  example  (Arte  Eng.  Poes.  p.  85)  :  — 

"  The  smoakie  sighes,  the  bitter  teares, 
That  I  in  vaine  have  wasted, 

1  English  Garner,  I.  578. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


197 


The  broken  sleepes,  the  woe  and  feares, 
That  long  in  me  have  lasted,"  etc. 

That  this  new  verse  is  not  simply  the  older  metre 
differently  printed,  is  evident  if  we  compare  a  couplet 
or  two  from  Chapman's  Iliad:  — 

"  As  when  about  the  silver  moon,  when  air  is  free  from  wind, 
And  stars  shine  clear,  to  whose  sweet  beams,  high  prospects,  and 
the  brows 

Of  all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust  up  themselves  for  shows, 
And  even  the  lowly  valleys  joy  to  glitter  in  their  sight, 
When  the  unmeasured  firmament  bursts  to  disclose  her  light, 
And  all  the  signs  in  heaven  are  seen  that  glad  the  shepherd's 
heart ; 

So  many  fires  disclosed  their  beams,  made  by  the  Trojan  part,1'  etc.1 

Similarly,  the  Alexandrine  was  split  into  two  verses 
of  three  accents  each  :  cf.  Surrey  :  — 

"  The  fire  it  cannot  freze  : 
For  it  is  not  his  kinde, 
Nor  true  love  cannot  lese 
The  Constance  of  the  minde." 

The  chief  mark  of  this  new  period  is  the  rise  of  Blank 
Verse.  Surrey,  so  far  as  we  know,  was  the  first  to  use 
it.  In  his  translation  of  Vergil's  JEneid,  Books  II.  and 
IV.,  he  employed  the  five-accent  measure,  which  was 
also  the  metre  of  his  predecessor,  Gawin  Douglas  ;  the 
difference  lay  in  the  fact  that  Douglas  made  his  trans^ 
lation  of  the  JEneid  in  heroic  rimed  couplets,  while 
Surrey,  after  the  model  of  the  Italian,  rejected  rime. 
His  example  was  soon  followed.  Gascoigne  {e.g.,  in  his 
Steele  Glas,  "  a  first  experiment  in  English  satire "), 
Lyly,  Peele,  Greene,  and  others,  all  improved,  as  was 

1  Iliad.  VIII.    See  Epic  Simile,  p.  109. 


198 


POETICS. 


natural,  on  Surrey's  somewhat  stiff  verses.  These 
poets  clung  to  the  rigid  system  of  counting  syllables, 
after  the  Italian  fashion  ; 1  but  they  were  less  guilty 
than  Surrey  in  regard  to  the  wrenched  accent  (cf  p.  142) : 
thus  in  Surrey's  verse  — 

"  Whoso  gladly  halseth  the  golden  meane," 

only  the  last  two  feet  have  the  iambic  movement.  But 
Peele  and  Greene  wrote  very  pretty  blank  verse ;  and 
the  poets  soon  learned  to  make  their  rhythm  fit  more 
closely  to  the  word-accent.  Hovering  Accent,  however, 
abounds,  and  is  frequent  enough  in  Shakspere  and 
Fletcher. 

In  Tambttrlaine  the  Great  by  Christopher  Marlowe, 
published  1590,  the  drama  at  last  found  the  metre  best 
suited  to  its  purposes,  and  used  it  with  conscious  ease. 
Marlowe's  somewhat  boastful  prologue  to  Tamburlaine 
is  famous  :  — 

' '  From  jigging  veifis  of  ri7ning  mother  wits, 
And  such  conceits  as  clownage  keeps  in  pay, 
We'll  lead  you  to  the  stately  tent  of,  war, 
Where  you  shall  hear  the  Scythian  Tamburlaine 
Threatening  the  world  with  high  astounding  terms 
And  scourging  kingdoms  with  his  conquering  sword. 
View  but  his  picture,"  etc. 

In  Shakspere's  hands  this  weapon  of  blank  verse  almost 
became  a  bow  of  Odysseus ;  although  Milton  rivals 
Shakspere  as  far  as  majesty  and  vigor  are  concerned. 
Since  Milton's  time,  the  quantity  of  blank  verse  has 
much  surpassed  its  quality,  though  Keats  in  his  Hype- 
rion,  and  Tennyson  in  certain  parts  of  the  Idylls  of  the 

1  Cf.  Schroer,  Ueber  die  Anfange  des  Bla?tkverses  in  England,  "  Anglia? 
iv.  1. 


METRES   OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


199 


King,  have  done  excellent  work,  —  Keats  in  mingled 
sweetness  and  strength,  and  Tennyson  in  delicacy  of 
construction. 

Meanwhile,  popular  as  blank  verse  became,  rime 
really  lost  no  ground.  For  epic  purposes  the  couplet 
(iambic),  though  rejected  by  certain  critics  and  poets, 
was  polished  into  beauty — cf.  the  exquisite  cadences  of 
Marlowe's  part  of  Hero  and  Leander ;  while  the  stanza 
came  again  into  favor  —  cf.  Shakspere's  narrative 
poems,  or  Spenser's  Faery  Queene.  Then,  too,  lyric 
poetry  multiplied  its  forms  of  verse  and  combinations 
of  rime,  so  as  to  keep  pace  with  that  profusion  of 
melody  which  made  Elizabeth's  England  "a  nest  of 
singing  birds."  In  short,  the  variety  of  verse  becomes 
so  marked  that  we  must  abandon  any  attempt  at  his- 
torical statement,  and,  taking  the  broad  field  of  modern 
metres,  shall  briefly  consider  them  according  to  their 
number  of  accents,  the  general  features  of  their  move- 
ment, and  their  combination  in  stanzas.  The  charac- 
teristics of  our  ordinary  metres  we  have  already  noted, 
—  stricter  reckoning  of  light  syllables  and  more  regular 
alternation  with  the  stress  ;  an  added  ease  of  rhythm  ; 
disappearance  of  beginning-rime  as  a  metrical  factor ; 
more  attention  paid  to  the  regulative  force  of  quantity ; 
the  rise  of  blank  verse.  There  is  a  smoothness,  a 
finish,  in  modern  work,  which  results  from  a  higher 
standard  of  general  culture  and  a  closer  study  of  classic 
and  foreign  models.  The  variations  of  stress,  pitch, 
quantity,  and  tone  fall  over  the  rigid  scheme  of  the 
metre  like  clinging  drapery  about  the  limbs  of  a  statue, 
at  once  revealing  and  softening  the  outlines. 

The  simplest  way  to  classify  metres  is  by  the  number 


200 


POETICS. 


of  stress-syllables  in  the  individual  verse.  By  " verse" 
we  here  mean  the  simple  plan  of  the  rhythm,  uninflu- 
enced by  the  actual  words  with  their  separate  and  col- 
lective emphasis ;  we  deal  simply  with  the  metrical 
scheme,  before  we  have  made  that  equation  of  claims 
which  was  mentioned  above,  p.  173.  A  second  and 
subordinate  factor  of  classification  is  the  regularity  or 
irregularity  of  the  metrical  scheme  :  —  whether  it  has  a 
constant  alternation  of  light  and  heavy  syllables,  and 
thus  can  be  classed  as  "  iambic,"  etc.,  —  or  whether  it 
approaches  the  old  freedom,  and  appeals  simply  to  the 
poetic  ear. 

(a)  Verse  of  One  Stress. 

Such  verses  occur  at  the  end  of  a  stanza,  or  within 
the  stanza,  but  can  hardly  be  used  continuously.  To 
be  sure,  we  might  so  print  a  line  of  Hood's  (already 
quoted)  :  — 

' '  Here  end 
As  just 
A  friend 
I  must," 

but  we  should  soon  have  to  divide  words,  and  other- 
wise fall  into  an  intolerable  jolting ;  only  for  a  comic  or 
like  effect  can  such  verse  be  thought  of.  Cf.  parts  of 
Southey's  Lodore.  In  the  stanza,  however,  it  is  often 
used  —  as  in  Herrick's  Daffodils :  — 

"  We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you  ; 
We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


20 1 


Like  to  the  summer  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again." 

See,  also,  the  same  poet's  White  Island.  Used  at  the 
end  of  a  stanza,  such  a  verse  is  sometimes  called  the 
"bob"  or  "  bob-wheel.,, 

\b)  Verse  of  Two  Stresses. 

Regular,  with  iambic  movement,  are  Herrick's  verses 
{To  the  Lark)  :  — 

"  Because  I  do 
Begin  to  woo, 
Sweet  singing  Lark, 
Be  thou  the  clerk, "  etc. 

Regular  trochaic,  with  feminine  rimes,  in  Swinburne's 
Song  in  Season  :  — 

"  Dust  that  covers 
Long  dead  lovers 

Song  blows  off  with  |  breath  that  brightens ; 
At  its  flashes, 
Their  white  ashes 

Burst  in  bloom  that  |  lives  and  lightens. " 

There  is  anapestic  movement  in  Scott's  Coronach; 
dactylic  in  parts  of  Hood's  Bridge  of  Sighs.  Irregular 
but  harmonious  is  the  movement  of  Shelley's  Arethusa, 
of  Baroness  Nairn's  Land  d  the  Leal  (with  the  old 
license  of  dropping  light  syllables),  of  parts  of  Shak- 
spere's  song  in  Mid.  Night's  Dream,  111.  2  :  — 

"  On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound : 
I'll  apply 
To  your  eye, 


202 


POETICS. 


Gentle  lover, 
Remedy. 

When  thou  wakest 
Thou  takest 
True  delight,"  etc. 

It  would  be  perilous  for  any  one  but  Puck  and  his 
fairies  to  try  this  metre.  See,  however,  the  song  at 
the  end  of  Twelfth  Night,  Act  iv.  — ■  and  we  remember 
iff.  p.  181)  Skelton's  fondness  for  irregular  two-accent 
verse. 

(c)  Verse  of  Three  Stresses. 

The  old  Alexandrine,  when  halved,  allowed  four  dif- 
ferent combinations  in  a  regular  stanza,  according  as 
the  old  pauses  and  endings  were  masculine  or  feminine: 
thus,  all  the  new  verse-endings  could  be  masculine ;  all 
could  be  feminine  ;  i  and  3  could  be  masculine,  and  3 
and  4  feminine  ;  or  vice  versa.  Further,  we  have  the 
presence  or  absence  of  initial  light  syllables  (iambic  or 
trochaic).  Thus  there  is  a  difference  in  metrical  effect 
between  Surrey's  verses  on  p.  197,  and  Moore's 

"  Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 
Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care, 
Smooths  away  a  wrinkle." 

The  extra  (light)  syllable  at  the  end  is  more  important 
than  at  the  beginning  :  thus  it  would  make  little  differ- 
ence if  we  put  an  "O"  before  the  word  "Fill";  it 
would  make  considerable  difference  if  we  said  "fairly  " 
instead  of  "fair"; — not,  of  course,  counting  the  loss 
of  rime.  Another  alternation  of  endings  is  found  in 
Shelley's  Skylark  (also  with  trochaic  effect).  —  It  is  very 


METRES  OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


203 


common  to  combine  the  anapestic  with  the  iambic 
movement,  the  dactylic  with  the  trochaic  ;  but  there  is 
also  much  verse  where  all  these  distinctions,  flimsy  at 
best  and  only  adopted  for  ease  in  classification,  disap- 
pear, —  and  we  must  rely  simply  on  the  natural  sense 
of  harmony,  the  sympathy  of  an  appreciative  ear  for 
the  beat  of  free  rhythm.  This  appreciation  for  rhythm 
is  almost  universal  with  children,  but  is  often  spoiled 
by  too  much  analysis  and  bewildering  theories ;  no- 
body but  a  pedant  could  go  wrong  on  the  verses  about 
Till  and  Tweed  quoted  on  p.  146,  but  they  refuse  to  fit 
into  the  metrical  scheme  of  the  schools.  —  Example  of 
general  anapestic  movement :  — 

"  My  heart  is  a  breaking,  dear  Tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len\ 
To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity,  — 
But  what  will  I  do  wi1  Tarn  Glen? "  —  Burns. 

For  dactylic  movement,  cf.  R.  Browning's  "  This  is  a 
spray  the  bird  clung  to!'  Irregular  are  parts  of  Shak- 
spere's  song  in  Twelfth  Night,  11.  4  :  — 

"  Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid, "  etc. 

See,  also,  Shelley's  beautiful  lines  "  When  the  lamp  is 
shattered. 

(d)  Verse  of  Four  Stresses. 

This  is  a  measure  long  enough  for  continuous  work, 
and  admits  of  a  decided  rhythmic  pause.  Verse  of  four 
accents  is  popular  in  light  epic  (cf.  Chaucer,  Scott,  etc.) 
as  well  as  in  lyric  poetry.    Coleridge  (in  Christabel), 


204 


POETICS. 


and  after  him,  Scott  and  Byron,  varied  with  anapestic 
feet  the  regular  alternation  of  heavy  and  light  syllables. 
But  this  freedom  which  Coleridge  claimed  as  a  "  new- 
principle  "  is  old  enough,  though  Coleridge  certainly 
gave  it  popularity.  In  its  regular  forms  the  four-stress 
verse  leans  toward  its  French  prototype,  the  "old  eight- 
syllable  "  metre;  while  in  its  freer  guise  it  reminds  us 
of  the  earliest  popular  English  measures,  and  has 
decided  echoes  of  Anglo-Saxon  rhythm.  This  four- 
accent  verse  embraces  such  extremes  as  the  regular 
"  iambics  "  of      Memoriam :  — 

"  This  truth  came  home  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most,  — 

and  the  triple  measure  of  Burns'  My  Nanies  Azva :  — 

"  Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  nature  arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er  the  braes,"  etc., 

in  which  we  note  the  beginning-rime,  as  well  as  the 
rhythmic  beat,  of  our  old  verse,  and  think  of  Laurence 
Minot's  line  (p.  180)  :  — 

"  The  boste  of  yowre  baner  es  betin  all  downe." 

That  wide-spread  ballad,  Lord  Donald,  or  as  Scott 
called  it,  Lord  Randal,  has  the  four-accent  verse,  and 
uses  it  with  freedom  :  — 

"  O  whe're  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Rdndal,  my  s6n? 

O  whe're  hae  ye  be'en,  my  handsome  young  man?" 
"  I  hae  be'en  to  the  wfldwood ;  mother  make  my  bed  soon, 

For  I'm  we'ary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  doun." 

The  third  verse  is  very  bold  in  the  beginning  of  its 
second  half:  "mother"  is  slurred  somewhat  after  the 
Anglo-Saxon  fashion  (cf.  p.  175). 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


205 


Regular  measures  other  than  iambic  are  common  : 
for  trochaic,  compare  Cowper's  Boadicea,  Ben  Jonson's 
Queen  and  huntress ,  chaste  and  fair,  Burns'  Farewell  to 
Nancy  (feminine  rimes),  and  the  rimeless  verse  of  Hia- 
watha. For  anapestic,  cf.  Swinburne's  chorus  When 
the  hounds  of  spring,  on  p.  170.  Dactylic  are  Byron's 
lines,  quoted  by  Guest :  — 

44  Warriors  and  chiefs,  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord,'1  etc. 

But  even  if  we  accept  such  grouping  (only  brevity, 
convenience,  and  custom  can  warrant  the  use  of  "  dac- 
tylic," "  trochaic,"  etc.)  in  regular  measures,  there  re- 
mains an  immense  amount  of  four-accent  verse  —  e.g., 
in  L  Allegro,  as  noted  on  p.  169  —  which  cannot  be  so 
classed,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  there  is  regular 
alternation  of  heavy  and  light  syllables.  The  above 
measures  were  constant  in  beginning  with  a  light  or 
with  a  heavy  syllable,  and  in  carrying  this  through  the 
whole  poem.  But  variety  is  given  to  measures  like  the 
four-stress  couplet  by  (1)  the  presence  or  absence  of  a 
light  syllable  before  the  first  stress;  (2)  the  presence  or 
absence  of  a  light  syllable  after  the  last  stress  (double 
or  single  ending) ;  (3)  occasional  license  in  the  distribu- 
tion of  light  syllables  within  the  verse ;  (4)  use  of  the 
rhythmic  pause.  Dr.  Guest  has  teased  these  light 
variations  into  the  fetters  of  a  useless  system,  and  gives 
a  table  of  definite  combinations  of  "  sections."  Thus 
the  couplet  (V Allegro)  : — 

"  And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  " 


206 


POETICS. 


is  analyzed  as  AbbA  :  AbbA 
Ab  A  :b  Ab  A; 
but  this  sort  of  labor  amounts  to  little,  and  is  like  a 
classification  of  the  successive  waves  that  break  on  an 
ocean  beach.  The  verses  are  alike,  but  yet  different. 
Their  art  lies  in  giving,  amid  all  this  variety  of  distribu- 
tion, a  constant  sense  of  four  rhythmic  " beats"  or 
stresses,  which  does  not  exclude  frequent  transfer  of 
weight  among  the  syllables.  Of  course,  nobody  will 
read  :  — 

"  And  to'  the  stack'  or  the'  barn  door' ;  " 
but  Dr.  Guest's  "  section  "  does  not  remove  the  difficulty, 
for  he  lays  the  stress  on  "And"  "  or"  and  makes  "barn  " 
light,  whereas  the  real  accents  are  "stack"  —  which  is 
further  emphasized  by  the  following  pause,  —  " barn" 
and  " door" ;  the  first  accent  is  divided  between  "And" 
and  "to" ;  "the"  "or"  and  "the"  have  no  accent  at 
all.  Or  perhaps  it  is  better  to  call  "stack"  "  bar?i" 
and  "door"  the  three  main  stresses,  and  let  the  fourth 
stress  divide  itself  among  the  five  small  words.  The 
next  verse  is  much  nearer  to  the  metrical  scheme  of 
alternating  light  and  heavy  syllables,  and  has  a  pro- 
nounced trochaic  movement.  Hovering  accent  (#),  and 
the  well-known  license  of  changing  the  distribution  of 
accents  after  a  pause  (6),  are  both  very  common  in  such 
verse :  — 

(a)  "  Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free.,, 
(J?)  "  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest." 

(b)  "  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth." 

Perhaps  we  should  here  read  with  the  old  license  of 
dropping  light  syllables  (cf.  p.  175),  and  so  emphasize 
the  name  :  — 

"  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth." 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


207 


Transposed  accent  is  very  prominent  in  Byron's  line:  — 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves, 
And  when  ye  fail  my  sight,"  etc. 

Reference  has  already  (p.  196)  been  made  to  the  pop- 
ularity of  this  measure  in  Shakspere's  day ;  and  it  is 
used  constantly  in  modern  lyric.  —  The  triple  measure 
—  two  light  syllables  to  each  stress — was  also  a  favor- 
ite with  Byron  and  with  Moore,  —  as  in  the  opening 
stanzas  of  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  and  in  certain  poems 
of  Lalla  Rookh ;  in  our  time,  Swinburne  combines 
double  and  triple  measures  with  good  result :  — 

"  There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 
By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea; 

In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 
There  shone  one  woman  and  none  but  she." 

Browning's  measure  is  more  dactylic  :  — 

"  Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 
Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee ; 

Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish, 
June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? " 

—  Garden  Fancies. 

The  combination  of  four-stress  and  three-stress  verse 
in  lyric  poetry  is  extremely  popular,  and  has  already 
been  noticed  in  the  description  of  the  Septenary  and  its 
later  forms.  Examples  lie  on  every  hand.  There  is  a 
stately  march  to  this  measure  in  the  iambic  movement  : 
cf.  Shelley's  chorus  from  Hellas :  — 

"  The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 
The  golden  years  return.1' 


208 


POETICS. 


(e)  Verse  of  Five  Stresses. 

This  commonest  of  English  metres  is  met  in  the 
couplet,  in  the  stanza,  and  in  blank  verse.  The  move- 
ment is  prevailingly  iambic ;  that  is,  the  metrical 
scheme  calls  for  an  opening  light  syllable  and  a  closing 
stress-syllable  ;  in  all,  five  stresses  alternating  regularly 
with  five  light  syllables.  But  the  laws  of  word-accent, 
the  rhetorical  emphasis,  and  the  license  of  double  end- 
ings, etc.,  so  modify  this  scheme  that  we  seldom  find 
a  perfect  example  of  the  measure  (cf.  p.  172);  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  is  no  good  poetry  in  this  measure 
where  the  ear  does  not  easily  recognize  the  underlying 
rhythm  of  five  beats,  so  distributed  as  to  produce  a 
general  iambic  movement. 

The  popularity  of  this  metre  is  easy  to  account  for. 
It  hits  the  golden  mean,  avoiding  the  too  short  and 
tripping  effect  of  four-stress  verse,  which  suits  lyric 
poetry  and  light  narrative,  but  is  unfitted  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  epic  and  the  drama ;  and  yet  it  does 
not  fall  into  the  monotonous  pace  of  the  Alexandrine 
with  an  invariable  middle  caesura.  The  odd  number 
of  measures  or  feet  allows  five-stress  verse  exqui- 
site variety  in  the  position  of  its  pause  (cf.  Chap.  VI. 

§4). 

Compared  with  iambic,  other  movements  of  this 
verse  are  rare.  For  rimed  trochaic,  cf.  Mr.  Arnold's 
Tristram  and  Iseult,  11.  :  — 

"  Fear  me  not,  I  will  be  always  with  thee  ; 
I  will  watch  thee,  tend  thee,  soothe  thy  pain ; 
Sing  thee  tales  of  true,  long-parted  lovers 
Join'd  at  evening  of  their  days  again." 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


209 


Trochaic  blank  verse  of  five  stresses  we  find  in  Brown- 
ing's One  Word  More :  — 

"  Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  ! " 

The  same  poet  has  written  anapestic  five-stress 
verse  :  — 

"  And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well.,, 

—  Saul. 

Irregular  is  the  metre  of  Moore's  song  —  At  the  mid 
hour  of  night :  — 

"  Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  'twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear, 
When  our  voices  commingling  breathed  like  one  on  the  ear." 

A  constant  feminine  or  double  ending  gives  a  new 
character  to  iambic  verse  :  as  .in  Fletcher's  part  of 
Henry  VIII.  (Wolsey's  famous  speech,  for  example)  ; 
and  when  combined  with  a  less  regular  arrangement  of 
accents,  it  becomes  a  quite  different  measure,  —  as  in 
Lamb's  Old  Familiar  Faces :  — 

"  I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  schooldays ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.*" 


Turning  to  the  more  popular  measure,  we  first  make 
the  broad  distinction  between  rimed  and  rimeless  verse. 
Rimed  five-stress  verse  is  common  in  many  forms  of 
the  stanza  —  e.g.,  the  metre  of  Spenser's  Faery  Queene, 
the  sonnet,  the  simple  quatrain  of  Gray's  Elegy,  etc. 
What  calls  for  most  comment  in  these  cases  is  the 


2IO 


POETICS. 


stanzaic  form ;  the  rules  for  the  individual  verse  present 
no  difficulties.  But  when  we  come  to  the  simplest 
rimed  form  of  this  measure,  the  "heroic"  couplet,  we 
must  distinguish  between  the  rhetorical  and  clear-cut 
verse  of  Dryden  or  Pope,  and  the  verse  of  those  poets 
who,  according  to  the  modest  claim  of  Keats,  "stammer 
where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing."  The  latter  verse 
strives  for  variety  and  a  "fluid"  movement.  Let  us 
take  Pope  in  his  best  vein,  his  brilliant,  rhetorical  vein, 
in  that  climax  at  the  end  of  the  Dunciad  which  Dr.  John- 
son and  Thackeray  have  both  praised  so  strongly :  — 

"  See  skulking  truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled, 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heap'd  o^er  her  head ! 
Philosophy  that  lean'd  on  heaven  before, 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 
Physic  of  Metaphysic  begs  defence, 
And  Metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  Sense ! 
See  Mystery  to  Mathematics  fly ! 
In  vain !  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 
Religion  blushing,  veils  her  sacred  fires, 
And  unawares  Morality  expires. 
Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine ; 
Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine  ! 
Lo  !  thy  dread  empire,  Chaos  !  is  restored  ; 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word ; 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch !  lets  the  curtain  fall, 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all.'1 

Pope  does  not  belong  to  our  greatest  poets ;  but  for 
brilliant  workmanship,  for  mingled  ease  and  vigor  in 
handling  verse,  he  is  without  a  superior;  and  the  above 
extract  merits  careful  study  and  a  consequent  insight 
into  the  grace  and  strength  of  its  construction.  For 
technical  points,  we  note  in  Pope  a  careful  observance 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


211 


of  word-accent ;  insistance  on  the  rhetorical  emphasis  ; 
a  verse  mostly,  and  a  couplet  always,  uend-stopt."  The 
verse  is  protected  from  monotony  by  the  matchless  ease 
with  which  it  is  handled,  and  by  the  variety  of  tone  and 
rime.  Like  Dryden's,  Pope's  verse  tends  to  split  into 
half-verses  with  two  stresses  in  each  ;  see  the  antitheti- 
cal lines  quoted  on  p.  126. 

But  much  as  we  admire  this  brilliant  verse,  our  trib- 
ute ceases  with  admiration.  It  is  the  other  verse,  the 
verse  of  Marlowe  and  Keats,  that  claims  our  sympathy 
and  touches  the  heart.  We  will  take  no  particularly 
beautiful  or  famous  passage,  but  simply  quote  a  few 
lines  from  Keat's  Endymion  :  — 

"  Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded ; 
Who,  gathering  round  the  altar,  seemed  to  pry 
Earnestly  round,  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday  :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  even  then 
FilPd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again." 

This  is  not  faultless,  like  Pope's  work  ;  there  is  a 
repetition,  and  we  note  some  awkwardness ;  but  we  for- 
give all  that  to  the  verse,  quia  multum  amavit.  It  has 
its  "eye  on  the  object/'  not  on  the  public  to  see  whether 
applause  is  coming.  Technically,  we  mark  the  run-on 
lines,  and  a  tendency  to  irregularity  in  the  weight  of 
accented  syllables  {sped:  garlanded).  Highly  finished 
modern  work  in  this  metre  will  be  found  in  the  Prelude 
to  Swinburne's  Tristram  of  Lyonessey  especially  in  the 
list  of  love-signs  of  the  different  months ;  as  for  older 


212 


POETISS. 


verse,  the  exquisite  music  of  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Lean- 
der  (first  two  Sestiads  :  the  rest  are  Chapman's)  has 
never  been  surpassed  by  any  couplets  in  our  literature. 

With  regard  to  rimed  "  heroic"  verse  in  general,  it 
is  to  be  noted  that  the  very  fact  of  rime  tends  to  make 
the  metre  regular.  Licenses  are  far  more  frequent  in 
blank  verse,  —  for  example,  light  endings,  which  are 
thrown  into  unpleasant  prominence  by  rime,  but  slip 
by  smoothly  enough  in  rimeless  poetry.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  a  stanza,  they  are  not  so  rare  :  cf.  Don  Juan, 
iv.  :  — 

"  Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 
Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail ; 
The  blank  grey  was  not  made  to  blast  their  hair,"  etc. 

Other  licenses  are  of  the  ordinary  kind.  Thus,  after 
or  with  a  pause,  either  of  an  entire  verse,  or  of  a  rhyth- 
mic section  of  a  verse,  English  poetry  favors  (a)  a  tro- 
chaic license,  and  (b)  extra  syllables.  A  modern  ear 
hardly  allows  Surrey's 

"  Whdso  gladly  halseth  the  golden  meane," 
or  even 

"  Brittle  beautie,  that  nature  mdde  so  fraile  ;  " 

but  any  verse  may  begin  with  a  stress-syllable :  and  the 
same  is  true  of  the  verse-section  after  a  pause  :  — 

"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert !  "  —  Shelley,  Adonais, 

or  with  very  faint  caesura  :  — 

"  What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead? " 

—  Shelley,  Adonais, 

For  extra  syllables  :  — 

"  I  se'e  befdre  me  the  gladiator  lie.71  —  Byron. 

"  I  heard  thee  m  the  gixden,  and  <5f  thy  voice."  —  Milton. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


213 


Slurring  is  common:  especially  with  "of  the/'  "  in 
the,"  etc.  In  Tennyson's  blank  verse  we  have  a  not 
unpleasant  cadence  :  — 

"  Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east,"  etc., 

or  in  the  verse  :  — 

"Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  through  the  lawns." 

Blank  Verse.  —  Shakspere  and  Milton. 

We  shall  take  Shakspere  as  representative  of  dra- 
matic blank  verse,  and  Milton  for  the  epic.  Shakspere 
uses  five-stress  verse  to  the  almost  total  exclusion  of 
other  kinds.  Exceptions  are  made  by  Sonnet  145,  by 
the  songs  referred  to  above,  and  by  some  occasional  six- 
stress  and  seven-stress  verse  (e.g.,  in  Loves  Labour s 
Lost).  His  dramas  are  written  mainly  in  rimeless 
verse;  the  narrative  poems  (Lucrece,  Vemis  and  Adonis), 
and  sonnets,  in  rimed  stanzas.  The  early  plays  show 
the  most  rime.  In  the  Winter  s  Tale  there  is  no  rimed 
verse  at  all ;  in  the  Tempest  there  is  one  riming  couplet : 
these  are  both  late  plays.  But  in  Love 's  Labour  s  Lost, 
one  of  the  earliest  plays,  there  are  more  than  one  thou- 
sand riming  verses  ;  in  Mid.  Night 's  Dream,  over  850. 
Taking  a  play  of  the  middle  period,  say  Julius  Cczsar, 
which  represents  neither  extreme  of  the  poet's  develop- 
ment, we  find  2,241  lines  of  blank  verse  to  34  rimed 
lines.1  It  follows  that  our  main  concern  will  be  with 
the  laws  of  Shakspere's  blank  verse. 

1  All  these  figures  are  taken  from  Fleay's  table,  Trans.  New  Shaks.  Soc. 
I.  p.  16. 


214 


POETICS. 


The  chief  thing  to  remember  in  reading  Shakspere's 
verses  is  that  they  were  made  for  the  ear,  not  for  the 
eye.    The  poet  who 

"  For  gain,  not  glory,  wingM  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite," 

had,  when  he  wrote,  little  regard  for  his  future  com- 
mentators' rule-of-thumb  scansion,  but  a  great  regard 
for  the  pleasure  his  rhythm  would  give  to  the  hearers 
at  the  theatre.  It  is  the  general  effect  of  the  lines, 
their  musical  flow,  which  we  take  into  account ;  though 
we  must  pay  some  attention  to  the  individual  elements 
of  the  verse. 

Rhythm  is  natural,  and  appeals  to  an  inborn  instinct 
for  harmony ;  therefore,  if  we  can  know  how  Shakspere 
sounded  his  words,  that  is,  if  we  become  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  material  in  which  he  worked,  it 
will  not  be  difficult  to  make  his  verses  melodious  to 
our  ears.  Hence,  contracted  or  expanded  words  must 
be  understood,  as  well  as  the  Elizabethan  word-accent, 
which  in  some  cases  differed  from  modern  usage.  For 
the  rest,  we  must  allow  Shakspere,  as  we  allowed 
Chaucer,  freedom  to  slur ;  and  what  Gascoigne  said  in 
his  day  about  Chaucer,  we,  who  stand  much  in  the 
same  relation  to  Shakspere,  may  apply  to  the  latter 
poet :  "  Who  so  euer  do  peruse  and  well  consider  his 
[Chaucer's]  workes,  he  shall  finde  that  although  his 
lines  are  not  alwayes  of  one  selfe  same  number  of  Syl- 
lables, yet  beyng  redde  by  one  that  hath  understanding, 
the  longest  verse  and  that  which  hath  most  Syllables  in 
it,  will  fall  (to  the  eare)  correspondent  unto  that  whiche 
hath  fewest  sillables  in  it :  and  like  wise  that  whiche 
hath  in  it  fewest  syllables,  shal  be  founde  yet  to  consist 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  21 5 

of  woordes  that  have  such  naturall  sounde,  as  may 
seeme  equall  in  length  to  a  verse  which  hath  many  moe 
sillables  of  lighter  accentes.,,  (Arber's  Reprint,  Cer- 
tayne  Notes,  etc.,  p.  34.)  In  other  words,  a  skilful  poet 
can  vary  the  distribution  of  his  accents  and  add  (light) 
syllables  to  his  verse,  yet  preserve  intact  the  rhythm 
which  his  chosen  scheme  demands.  He  can  also  drop 
a  light  syllable  and  let  pause  or  emphasis  make  up  for 
the  loss,  as  we  shall  see  below.    In  the  verse,  — 

"  The  senate  hath  sent  about  three  several  quests  " 

{Oth.  1.  11.  46), 

it  is  not  necessary  to  contract  "senate"  to  "sen't,"  and 
so  make  an  unpleasant  repetition  in  the  next  foot.  The 
word  is  slurred,  or  rapidly  pronounced,  and  the  verse 
satisfies  our  ear.  Ellis  gives  examples  of  this  slurring 
in  all  parts  of  the  verse.  From  his  list  of  "  Trisyllabic 
Measures"  {Early  Eng.  Pron.,  p.  941)  and  from  Abbott, 
we  select  a  few  cases ;  the  first  is  Guest's  "  slovenly  " 
rhythm  :  — 

"  I  beseech  your  graces  both  to  pardon  her." —  Rich.  III.  1.  1. 

"  Let  me  see,  let  me  see;  is  not  the  leaf  turn'd  ddwn?" 

-J.  Civ.  3. 

"  At  dny  time  have  recourse  unto  the  princes." 

—  Rich.  III.  in.  5. 

"  Deliver  this  with  modesty  to*  the  queen." 

—  Hen.  VIII.  11.  2. 

"  Except  immdrtal  Caesar  speaking  of  Brutus."  —  J.  C.  1.  1, 

There  is  no  need  to  do  violence  to  these  words,  and 
read  U  seech,  let  m  see  (say,  lent  see  !),  'course  (Abbott), 
etc.  It  is  rapid  pronunciation,  not  suppression  of  the 
sounds  in  question,  which  satisfies  the  metre.  Indeed, 


2l6 


POETICS. 


in  the  fourth  example  we  may  pronounce  modesty  with 
distinctness,  for  the  third  syllable  borrows  a  part  of  the 
stress  and  importance  of  the  next  rhythmic  accent, 
which  is  the  weak  word  to.  A  slight  rhythmic  pause 
after  modesty  also  countenances  the  added  syllable. 
We  shall  find  that  Milton  uses  this  license  very  often. 
Contractions,  of  course,  are  common  enough  in  Shak- 
spere  :  this  is  to  this'  ;  I  will  to  I'll,  as  now,  —  and  the 
like  (see  below)  ;  but  trisyllabic  measures,  at  least  with 
slurred  syllables,  are  also  frequent  in  Shakspere,  and 
cannot  be  explained  away.  As  regards  double  and 
triple  endings,  the  former  are  often  found,  but  Shak- 
spere is  not  half  so  fond  of  them  as  Fletcher  is,  who 
uses  them  in  continuous  verse,  and  the  latter  poet's 
share  in  Hen.  VIII.  can  be  marked  off  by  the  use  of 
this  simple  test.  In  Hamlet,  out  of  3,924  verses,  508 
have  double  endings  ;  in  Hen.  VIII.  there  are  1,195  out 
of  2,754  (Fleay).  Triple  endings  are  rare  and  mostly 
can  be  contracted  or  slurred  :  — 

"  I  dare  avouch  it,  sir;  what,  fifty  followers  ?" —  Lear,  II.  4. 

Fletcher,  PilgjHm  (Ward)  :  — 

"  The  wind  blows  thro'  the  leaves  and  plays  with  ''em" 
Fleay  cites  Middleton  :  — 

"  As  wild  and  merry  as  the  heart  of  innocence." 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  just  where  slurring  ends  and  full 
contraction  takes  place.  In 

"  To  entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool1'  (AWs  Well,  11.  2), 

the  it  is  perhaps  to  be  contracted  (entertain  t) ,  while 
merrily  is  slurred.     Cf.  Hamlet,  1.  1  :  — 

"  That  hath  a  stomach  in't :  which  is  no  other." 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


217 


We  may  distinguish  between  the  contraction  of  two 
words  into  one,  and  the  contraction  of  a  single  word 
into  fewer  syllables.  Contracted  to  one  word  are  in  his 
(==  iris),  of  his  (=  o's),  they  have  (=  they've,  as  now), 
and  the  like  :  e.g.  :  — 

"The  morning  comes  upon  us ;  we'll  leave  you,  Brutus," 

where,  however,  an  extra  syllable  could  easily  be 
sounded  before  the  pause.  So  God  b'  wi  you,  as  in 
Hamlet,  n.  1  (Browne)  :  — 

44  R.  My  lord,  I  have. 
P.  God  be  with  you,  fare  you  well." 

So  by  our  and  by  your,  to  byr.  —  Lastly,  final  r  easily 
runs  into  a  following  initial  vowel  or  h,  —  thus,  Cym. 
in.  4 :  — 

44  Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear." 

But  contraction  often  takes  place  within  the  word. 
Thus  prefixes  are  dropped.  Cf.  y  count  for  account  in 
Ham.  iv.  4  :  — 

44  Why  to  a  public  count  I  could  not  go." 

Many  other  cases  are  given  by  Abbott,  Shaks.  Gram.  § 
460.  Other  bold  contractions  are  ignomy  for  ignominy, 
canstick  for  candlestick,  etc.  Many  modern  English 
proper  names  are  similarly  contracted  :  cf.  Cholmonde- 
ley.  Again,  a  "  liquid  "  consonant  followed  by  a  vowel 
is  easily  contracted  ;  spirit  is  mostly  one  syllable  in 
Shakspere  :  cf.  the  metathesis  sprite.  So  also  parlous 
(=  perilous)  ;  punishment  (slurring  is  more  probable 
here)  ;  barbarous  ;  promising :  indeed,  any  light  syllable 
which  comes  between  primary  and  secondary  accent 
(cf.  in  Chaucer's  metres,  p.  190),  or  the  weakest  syllable 


218 


POETICS. 


among  several,  can  either  be  slurred  or  drop  out  alto- 
gether :  speculative  (speclative) ;  medicine ;  sanctuary, 
etc.  In  such  cases  as  these,  almost  any  one  with  a 
good  ear  will  u  scan  "  the  verse  correctly  enough  with- 
out instruction.  It  is  not  proposed  to  give  here  a  list 
of  Shakspere's  slurred  and  contracted  words  ;  —  for  de- 
tails, cf.  Abbott,  and  also  Notes  on  Shakspere  s  Versifica- 
tion, by  G.  H.  Browne,  A.M.1  We  add  a  few  common 
cases  :  whether  to  wher  :  — 

"  And  see  whether  Brutus  be  alive  or  dead."  —  J.  C.  v.  5. 

So  devil,  marvel  (to  marie  in  Ben  Jonson),  needle 
(tieele)  ;  also  contracted  is  final  -ed  after  t  or  d:  exe- 
cuted to  execute  ;  exceeded  to  exceed' ;  mistrusted  to 
mistrust'  ;  fitted  to  fitt\  etc.  Similarly,  the  possessive 
or  the  plural  -s  is  dropped  after  -set  -ce>  etc. :  — 

"  I'll  to  him  ;  he  is  hid  at  Laurence1  cell."  —  R.  fir9  J.  in.  2. 

On  the  other  hand,  many  words  which  are  monosyl- 
lables to  us  could  be  so  expanded  in  Shakspere's  time 
that  they  either  were  actually  dissyllabic,  or  else  were 
so  prolonged  as  to  have  the  same  effect :  this  is  inde- 
pendent of  the  pause,  which  may  itself  take  the  place 
of  a  syllable.  Then,  too,  an  emphatic  monosyllable, 
without  any  pause  or  any  expansion  at  all,  may  fill  out 
a  "  foot "  ;  thus,  in  As  You  Like  It,  111.  4,  — 

"  Bring  I  us  to  this  sight,  and  y6u  shall  say," 

Bring  seems  to  be  sufficient  through  its  rhetorical  and 
syntactical  emphasis ;  and  the  emendations  of  Pope, 
Malone,  and  others  are  needless.    Still  more  certain  is 


1  Boston:  Girm,  Heath,  &  Co.  1884. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE.  2ig 

the  case  where  an  emphatic  pause  follows  the  monosyl- 
lable, as  in  the  often  quoted  verse  (R.  II.  i.  3)  :  — 

"  Stay !  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder  down." 

There  is  not  the  slightest  need  to  pronounce  "sta-ay," 
or  even  "stay-7"  (Browne);  for  the  sharp  exclamation 
is  spoiled  by  dwelling  on  the  diphthong.  On  the  con- 
trary, "  O  !  "  is  so  prolonged,  and  takes  the  place  of  two 
syllables  :  — 

"  O  the  difference  of  man  and  man.1'  —  Lear,  III.  7. 

It  does  not  become  two  syllables  (O-o),  but  is  simply 
prolonged,  as  in  the  natural  cry  of  wonder  or  protest. 
So  we  would  read  Macb.  1.  2  :  — 

"  'Gainst  my  captivity.   Hail  I  brave  friend." 

The  liquids,  r,  /,  etc.,  lend  themselves  readily  to 
expansions,  being  used  now  as  consonants,  now  as 
vowels  :  — 

"  That  croaks  the  fatal  ent(e)rance  of  Duncan."  —  Macb.  1.  5. 

"  Look  how  he  makes  to  Caesar  !  mar-k  him.  —  J.  C.  III.  1. 

"  I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows."  1 

—  M.  N.  D.  11.  1. 

"  And  mean  to  make  her  queen  of  Eng(e)land." 

—  R.  HI.  iv.  4. 

The  termination  -ion  in  Shakspere  counts  either  as  one 
syllable  or  as  two ;  so  also  -ier  (so/d-z-er),  -iant>  -ean, 
etc.,  e.g. :  — 

"  By  the  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion.''''  —  Haml.  1.  4. 
"  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean"  —  M.  of  V.  1.  1. 

1  Note  in  this  verse,  as  in  Macb.  I.  2  above,  how  the  single  syllable  in 
question  is  helped  by  the  hovering  accents  and  heavy  stresses  that  follow. 


220 


POETICS. 


Cf.  Milton  :  — 

"  Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  oc-e-an." — Nativ.  Hymn. 

Then,  too,  the  old  inflexional  endings  still  asserted 
themselves  here  and  there  ;  e.g.,  the  noun  ach-es  : 
Temp.  i.  2  :  — 

44  Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches,  make  thee  roar." 

Accent.  —  In  reading  Shakspere,  we  often  have  to 
throw  the  accent  of  a  word  either  forward  or  back  of  its 
modern  place.  Lists  of  such  words,  and  lines  where 
they  occur,  are  given  by  Ellis  (verses  are  simply  re- 
ferred to,  not  quoted)  E.  E.  P.  p.  930,  and  by  Abbott, 
Gram,  §§  490  ff.  Many  cases  show  undoubted  differ- 
ence from  modern  usage  :  thus  Altena  (proper  name), 
revmue,  arck! bishop,  confessor,  persever,  etc. 

"  Ay  do  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks. "  —  M.  IV.  D.  in.  2. 

This  is  quite  natural  if  we  consider  what  a  shifting 
thing  "  pronunciation  "  is  when  it  deals  with  words 
derived  from  foreign  sources,  and  if  we  recall  the  fact 
that  the  foreign  accent  at  once  enters  into  strife  with 
the  Germanic  impulse  to  accent  the  root-syllable,  or 
when  that  is  not  evident,  the  first  syllable.  But  we 
find  Shakspere,  as  we  found  Chaucer,  accenting  a  word 
now  one  way,  now  another,  as  the  metre  demands  (cf. 
p.  192)  ;  and  we  conclude  that  in  many  cases  use  may 
be  made  of  the  hovering  accent  previously  mentioned. 
Thus  in  W.  T.  iv.  4,  — 

44  Mark  our  contract ;  mark  your  divorce,  young  sir," 

we  need  not  throw  the  entire  weight  of  accent  on  -tract. 
The  stress  may  be  divided  ;  though  in  this  case,  the 


METRES   OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


221 


second  syllable  has  a  slight  preponderance.  Take  other 
verses : — 

"  That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel." 

—  Haml.  I.  4. 

"  His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  funeral.'"  — HamL  iv.  5. 

44  Now  for  the  honour  of  the  forlorn  French.1' 

—  1  Hen.  VL  1.  2. 

"  /  myself  fight  not  once  in  forty  years."  —  1  Hen.  VI.  1.  3. 

In  these  we  have  undoubted  hovering  accent.  While 

the  difference  is  stronger  in  {Haml.,  1.  4) 

44  Why  thy  canonized  bones,  hearsed  in  death  "  ; 

nevertheless,  in  cases  like 

44  O  Harry's  wife,  trmmph  not  in  my  woes"  (R.  HI.  iv.  4), 
44  That  comes  in  triumph  over  Caesar's  blood  "  (J.  C.  1.  1), 

we  have  practically  the  same  word-accent,  though  the 
metre  makes  a  slight  counter-claim  in  the  first  example; 
—  in  other  words,  it  is  not  necessary  to  shift  the  entire 
stress  from  the  first  to  the  second  syllable. 

We  have  already  noted  the  license  given  to  English 
blank  verse  by  the  pause,  — whether  it  be  the  end  of 
the  verse  or  the  so-called  "  caesura."  Thus  two  stress- 
syllables  may  come  together,  provided  the  pause  inter- 
venes ;  as  in 

44  Be  in  their  flowing  cups  |  freshly  remember' d  " 

(H.  F.  IV.3)  ; 

and  with  a  slight  rhythmic  pause  in 

44  See  how  my  sword  |  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death." 

—  3  H.  VL  v.  6. 

Again,  an  extra  syllable  is  frequent  before  a  pause. 
An  excellent  example,  giving  this  license  both  within 


222 


POETICS. 


the  line  and  at  the  end  ("feminine  "  or  double  ending) 
is  — 

"  Obey  and  be  attentzW:  canst  thou  remem^r.?11 

—  Temp.  i.  2. 

Shakspere  does  not  allow  this  extra  syllable  at  the  end 
to  be  a  monosyllable  :  Fletcher,  however,  is  fond  of 
such  endings,  and  we  find  many  in  his  part  of  Hen. 
VII 7.,  e.g.:  — 

"  Fell  by  our  servants,  by  those  mdn  we  lov'd  most." 

Occasionally  Shakspere  slips  into  an  Alexandrine ; 
and  while  many  of  these  can  be  explained  away  by 
contraction  or  slurring,  there  still  remain  a  few  un- 
doubted cases,  —  small  wonder,  considering  the  popu- 
larity of  the  measure  in  the  Sixteenth  Century,  and  the 
freedom  with  which  Shakspere  handles  his  dramatic 
material. 

It  is  the  mutual  relations  of  the  metrical  scheme  and 
the  word-groups  which  give  character  to  rhythm.  We 
have  already  noticed  this  strife  between  type  and  indi- 
vidual, between  unity  and  variety,  and  the  beauty 
which  results  when  a  true  poet  is  in  the  question. 
Now  we  can  see  a  decided  growth  in  Shakspere's  art  of 
verse-making,  a  steady  progress  from  the  fetters  of 
slavish  obedience  to  his  metrical  scheme,  towards  the 
strong  and  chainless  music  of  his  later  verse.  From 
Loves  Labour s  Lost  with  "  unstopt  "  to  "  end-stopt  "  in 
the  proportion  of  I  :  18.14,  to  The  Winter  s  Tale  with 
1  :  2.12,  is  a  long  stride*;  it  means  that  our  highest  dra- 
matic art  found  its  best  instrument  in  a  metre  which 
allowed  all  possible  variety  of  word-groups.  Mr.  Sped- 
ding  {Trans.  New  Shaks.  Soc.  1874,  1.  p.  30)  gives  the 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


223 


same  subject  ("the  face  of  a  beautiful  woman  just 
dead ")  as  treated  by  Shakspere  at  different  periods ; 
thus  Rom.  &  Jul.  (say  1597)  :  — 

"  Her  blood  is  settled  and  her  joints  are  stiff. 
Life  and  those  lips  have  long  been  separated. 
Death  lies  on  her  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  fairest  flower  of  all  the  field.1' 

Cf  Antony  &  Cleop.  (say  1607)  :  — 

"  If  they  had  swallowed  poison,  'twould  appear 
By  external  swelling :  but  she  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace.'1 

Aside  from  the  gain  in  vigor  of  style  shown  by  the 
second  extract,  note  the  freedom  of  movement  and  the 
strength  and  variety  imparted  by  the  shifting  pause. 
Note,  too,  the  trisyllabic  opening  of  the  second  verse  of 
the  same  extract. 

Another  feature  of  Shakspere's  later  work  is  his  use 
of  light  and  weak  endings  :  light  being  such  words  as 
am,  are,  be,  can,  could,  —  do,  does,  has,  had  (as  auxilia- 
ries),— /,  they,  thou  ;  weak  are  words  like  and,  for,  from, 
if,  in,  of,  or  (Dowden).1  "  In  Macbeth  light  endings 
appear  for  the  first  time  in  considerable  numbers ;  weak 
endings  in  considerable  numbers  for  the  first  time  in 
Antony  and  Cleopatra."  The  same  progress  is  seen  in 
the  poet's  increasing  use  of  double  endings. 

So  much  for  a  very  meagre  outline  of  Shakspere's 
versification.  We  have  assumed  throughout  (1)  that 
the  regular  metrical  scheme  of  five  accented  syllables, 
alternating  regularly  with  five  unaccented  syllables,  is 
valid  only  so  far  as  it  makes  the  foundation  and  ground- 

1  See  also  Trans.  N.  Shaks.  Soc.  1 874,  11.  p.  448. 


224 


POETICS. 


plan  of  the  rhythm,  and  is  so  modified  by  word-accent, 
rhetorical  accent,  quantity,  and  tone,  that  it  can  rarely, 
if  ever,  be  applied  with  literal  exactness  to  the  concrete 
verse  ;  but  that  (2)  it  is  certainly  present  as  the  skeleton 
of  the  verse,  can  always  be  detected  by  the  ear,  and  is 
our  one  test  of  correct  rhythm. 


Milton  s  Verse. 

The  sonorous  roll  of  Miltonic  rhythm  is  unique  in 
our  poetry,  although  it  has  enticed  countless  bardlings 
to  a  superficial  imitation  whose  inversion  and  verbosity 
resemble  Milton's  work  as  tinsel  resembles  silver.  But 
in  Milton's  hands  epic  blank  verse  becomes  worthy  of 
such  praise  as  this  from  Mr.  Arnold  : 1  "To  this  metre, 
as  used  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  our  country  owes  the 
glory  of  having  produced  one  of  the  only  two  poetical 
works  in  the  grand  style  which  are  to  be  found  in  the 
modern  languages  ;  the  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante  is  the 
other."  The  verse  thus  highly  praised  can  present  no 
difficulties  to  a  sympathetic  ear  which  allows  the  free- 
dom of  slurring,  the  variety  of  the  pause,  and  the  use 
of  hovering  accent.  Occasionally  there  is  transposed 
accent,  but  mostly  in  its  usual  place  after  the  pause. 
The  "inversions"  are  matters  of  style. 

Often  Milton's  hovering  accent  is  very  subtile,  arid 
Mr.  Arnold  has  somewhere  made  it  a  test  of  one's  ear 
for  metre  whether  or  not  one  finds  good  rhythm  in  the 
last  verse  of  the  passage  :  — 

"  Those  other  two  equal'd  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equal'd  with  them  in  renown, 

1  On  Translating  Homer,  ill. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


225 


Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Maeonides, 
And  Tiresias  and  Phineus,  prophets  old" 

In  this  last  verse,  which  the  ear  of  Bentley  rejected  as 
bad  metre,  the  rhythm  accents  Tf-resias  (slurring  of  i), 
the  word  accents  Tire-sias  ;  but  the  first  syllable  is  a 
diphthong  and  is  helped  by  its  quantity,  so  that  with 
hovering  accent  the  verse  "  scans "  admirably.  Cf. 
>  Shelley's  verse  :  — 

"  The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay.1' —  West  Wind, 

A  case  of  accent  changed  after  a  pause  is 

**  Floats  as  they  pass,  fanned  with  unnumber'd  plumes.*" 

—  Par.  Lost,  7. 

Slurring  is  frequently  used  :  — 

"  How  quick  they  wheePd,  and  trying  behind  them  shot.1' 

—  Par.  Reg. 

"  Your  military  obedience,  to  dissolve.1" 

"  Thy  condescens/<cw  and  shall  be  honor' d  ever.1" 

"  A  pillar  of  state  :  deep  on  his  front  engraven." 

As  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  its  soft  cadences,  is  to  the 
vigorous  stride  of  Shakspere's  last  plays,  so  is  the  Co- 
mus  of  Milton  to  his  Paradise  Lost.  In  Comus  the 
versification  is  exquisite,  full  of  such  movement  as  — 

' '  What  need  a  vermeil-tinctur'd  lip  for  that, 
Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the  morn  f  " 

or 

"  O  welcome,  pure-ey'd  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel  girt  with  golden  wings  !  " 

This  verse  is  full  of  the  beauty  of  Elizabethan  rhythm  ; 
but  there  is  a  splendor,  a  majesty,  in  the  later  epic,  for 
which  we  have  no  adjective  but  "Miltonic."  Cf.  with 
the  above  extracts  this  from  Paradise  Lost  (Book  vi.) :  — 


226 


POETICS. 


(1)  "  Servant  of  Gdd,  well  d6ne,  we'll  hast  thou  fought 

(2)  The  better  fight,  who  single  hast  maintain'd 

(3)  Against  revolted  multitudes  the  cause 

(4)  Of  truth,  in  word  mightier  than  they  in  arms  ; 

(5)  And  for  the  testimony  of  truth  hast  borne 

(6)  Universal  reproach,  tar  wdrse  to  bear 

(7)  Than  violence." 

Note  the  distribution  of  the  pauses;  the  " run-on"  lines, 
which,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  "  change  the  measures 
of  a  poet  to  the  periods  of  a  declaimer,',  but,  for  our 
ears,  give  vigor  as  well  as  variety  to  the  verse  ;  the 
shifting  of  accents,  —  as  in  (4)  where  the  real  rhythmi- 
cal pause  is  after  word,  and  so  allows  transposed  accent 
in  the  next  foot;  the  hovering  accent  (1)  wUl  done  ;  the 
slurring  of  (4)  (5)  -ier  and  -ny  of;  and  the  light  accent 
in  (5)  on  And  for,  which  allows  extra  emphasis  for  the 
following  phrase.  Other  examples  of  a  very  weak  initial 
accent  are  (Guest,  p.  239)  :  — 

"  By  the  waters  of  life,  where'er  they  sdt." 
"  To  the  garden  of  bliss  thy  seat  prepaYd." 

Here,  with  hovering  accent  for  waters  ox  garden,  thus 
dwelling  on  the  chief  word,  we  can  help  the  metre, 
which  to  Guest's  ear  was  "far  from  pleasing."  The 
most  famous  license,  however,  is  (6) :  — 

"  Universal  reproach,  far  worse  to  bear." 

Read  with  proper  emphasis,  this  verse  is  not  at  all 
unpleasing ;  indeed,  the  metre  helps  the  sense  (=  "  re- 
proach on  all  sides,  —  absolute  ").  The  very  pronounced 
pause  after  reproach  throws  the  emphatic  words  into 
prominence ;  and  altogether  we  may  call  this  admirable 


METRES   OF   ENGLISH  VERSE. 


227 


metrical  workmanship.  "  Trochaic,"  entirely,  is  a  well- 
known  line  in  Keats'  Hyperion :  — 

"  Thea,  Thea,  Thea,  where  is  Saturn?" 
Again,  Guest  objects  to  the  verse, — 

"  Beyond  the  polar  circle  :  to  them,  day," 

because  it  lays  too  much  stress  on  a  weak  word  to;  but 
by  applying  the  principle  of  hovering  accent,  the  verse 
is  harmonious  enough  :  — 

"  Beyond  the  polar  circle  :  to  them  day,"  etc. 

Finally,  there  can  be  lines  when  it  is  almost  impossi- 
ble to  talk  of  light  or  heavy  syllables  :  — 

"  Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death." 

With  this,  we  leave  English  Blank  Verse  ;  but  no 
account  of  it  can  afford  to  forget  the  splendid  promise 
and  melody  of  Keats'  fragment,  Hyperion:  alas, — 

"  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough." 

(/)  Verse  of  Six  Stresses. 

The  Alexandrine  has  already  been  noticed.  Popular 
at  the  beginning  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  it  was 
gradually  thrust  aside  by  heroic  verse ;  though  Dray- 
ton's Polyolbion  (161 2)  employs  it  consistently.  When 
we  read  a  little  of  this  poem,  we  understand  why  the 
metre  lost  ground  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  so  able  a 
poet. 

'*  Of  Albion's  glorious  isle  the  wonders  whilst  I  write, 
The  sundry  varying  soils,  the  pleasures  infinite, 


228 


POETICS. 


Where  heat  kills  not  the  cold,  nor  cold  expels  the  heat, 
The  calms  too  mildly  small,  nor  winds  too  roughly  great, 
Nor  night  doth  hinder  day,  nor  day  the  night  doth  wrong ; 
The  summer  not  too  short,  the  winter  not  too  long." 

But  combined  with  heroic  verse  at  the  end  of  a  stanza, 
as  in  Spenser,  or  incidental  to  the  regular  couplet,  as 
in  Dryden,  the  Alexandrine  has  a  pleasant  effect :  — 

"  So  pale  grows  Reason  in  Religion's  sight, 
So  dies  and  so  dissolves  in  supernatural  light" 

The  Alexandrine  is  iambic  ;  a  trochaic  movement  in 
six-stress  verse  gives  a  stately  or  mournful  effect, — as 
in  Swinburne's  lines  :  — 

"  Dark  the  shrine  and  dumb  the  fount  of  song  thence  welling, 
Save  for  words  more  sad  than  tears  of  blood,  that  said : 
Tell  the  king,  on  earth  has  fallen  the  glorious  dwelling, 
And  the  watersprings  that  spake  are  quenched  and  dead." 

Irregular  six-stress  verse  is  met  in  couplet  and  stanza  : 

"  Out  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the  sea  without  shore  is, 
Full  of  the  sunset,  and  sad,  if  at  all,  with  the  fulness  of  joy, 
As  a  wind  sets  in  with  the  autumn  that  blows  from  the  region  of 
stdries, 

Blows  with  a  perfume  of  songs  and  of  memories  beloved  from  a 
boy." 

Cf.  the  metre  of  the  opening  stanzas  of  Tennyson's 
Maud,  and  the  strong  verse  of  Morris'  Sigztrd  the 
Volsung. 

Here,  finally,  belongs  the  so-called  Hexameter.  It  is, 
of  course,  quite  clear  that  the  actual  classic  hexameter 
cannot  be  imitated  in  English  verse  ;  that  is  plain  to 
any  one  who  can  distinguish  quantity  from  accent. 
Nor  can  we  reproduce  the  full  effect  of  the  classic  hex- 
ameter by  the  simple  substitution  of  accented  for  long 
syllables,  and  unaccented  for  short.     But  there  is  no 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


229 


reason  why  we  cannot,  by  such  a  substitution,  imitate 
the  general  movement  of  the  old  metre.  The  English 
verse  thus  obtained  becomes  a  measure  which  may 
please  some  and  displease  others,  and  is  to  be  judged 
precisely  as  we  judge  the  Alexandrine  or  any  given 
verse-system.  For  surely,  if  we,  with  our  English 
sounds  and  English  accents  and  dull  ear  for  exact  pro- 
portions of  quantity,  can  read  aloud  with  pleasure  (the 
test  of  an  agreeable  metre)  the  verse  of  Homer  or 
Vergil,  it  follows  that  a  verse  of  similar  effect  in  move- 
ment can  be  obtained  in  our  own  language  ;  the  differ- 
ence between  the  two  metres  will  be  the  difference 
between  the  structure  of  English  and  the  structure  of 
Greek  or  of  Latin,  together  with  the  loss  of  delicate 
quantity-relations,  which,  indeed,  are  with  classical 
scholars  rather  thought  than  felt.  This  is  a  loss ;  but 
it  is  absurd  to  maintain  that  we  cannot  transfer  to 
English  verse  the  general  movement  (i.e.,  the  distri- 
bution of  verse-accents)  of  classic  hexameter.  The 
trouble  lies  in  the  lack  of  any  good  English  substitute 
for  the  classic  spondee  (  )  ;  whereas  the  purely  dac- 
tylic hexameter,  without  relief  through  spondaic  effects, 
is,  in  the  long  run,  monotonous.  Perhaps  this  is  what 
made  Platen,  the  German  poet,  declare  the  hexameter 
"fit  only  for  short  poems."  Mr.  Arnold,  however,  says 
"  Solvitur  ambulando"  ;  and  wants  us  to  practise  hexa- 
meters till  we  can  make  perfect  ones.  Certainly,  if  we 
look  at  early  attempts  in  this  metre,  we  can  gather 
comfort  for  our  own  condition  and  hope  for  the  future. 
Nash  said  of  certain  hexameter  verse  of  his  day  :  "  that 
drunken,  staggering  kind  of  verse,  which  is  all  up  hill 
and  down  hill  .  .  .  and  goes  like  a  horse  plunging 


230 


POETICS. 


through  the  mire  in  the  deep  of  winter,  now  soused  up 
to  the  saddle,  and  straight  aloft  on  his  tip-toes."  Cam- 
pion more  gravely  says  that  such  verse  is  not  successful 
because  "the  concurse  of  monosillables  make  (sic)  our 
verses  unapt  to  slide."  Now  Nash,  when  he  made  his 
comparison,  was  thinking  of  one  Richard  Stanyhurst's 
translation  (Leyden,  1582  :  now  reprinted  by  Arber)  of 
four  books  of  the  JEneid  into  what  he  called  hexa- 
meters, —  of  which  Nash  further  remarked  that  it  was 
"a  foule,  lumbring,  boystrous,  wallowing  measure." 
Take  the  opening  of  Book  II.,  which  will  make  the 
reader  quite  agree  with  Nash  :  — 

"  Wyth  tentiue  lystning  eeche  wight  was  setled  in  hardening, 
Thus  father  ^neas  chronicled  from  lofty  bed  hautye. 
You  me  bid,  O  Princesse,  too  scarrify  a  festered  old  soare." 

But  there  were  far  better  specimens  even  at  that  time ; 
thus  Greene  :  — 

"  Oft  have  I  heard  my  lief  Coridon  report  on  a  love-day 
When  bonny  maids  do  meet  with  the  swains  in  the  valley  by 
Tempe." 

Klopstock  (to  come  to  more  modern  times)  chose  the 
hexameter  for  the  metre  of  his  German  Paradise  Lost, 
the  Messias ;  Goethe  often  used  it,  —  e.g.,  in  Her- 
mann und  Dorothea;  and,  for  English,  Longfellow's 
Evangeline,  Clough's  Bothie  of  Tober-na-Vuolick,  and 
(perhaps  best  of  all)  Kingsley's  Andromeda,  at  least 
should  make  us  recognize  this  measure  as  a  belligerent, 
though  some  writers  speak  of  the  English  hexameter  as 
a  proved  failure.  To  these  practical  examples,  add  Mr. 
Arnold's  critical  remarks  in  his  Essay  on  Translating 
Homer.    We  have  no  space  to  enter  into  the  discussion. 


METRES  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


231 


But  we  may  point  out  that  besides  the  lack  of  spondaic 
effect,  there  is  often  a  false  accent  in  hexameter  verse 
which  ought  to  be  carefully  avoided  :  thus 

"  In  that  delightful  Mnd  which  is  washed  by  the  Delaware's  waters," 

if  read  metrically,  has  an  almost  ludicrous  effect.  Bet- 
ter is 

"  Bent  like  a  laboring  oar  which  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  dcean." 

Then,  too,  the  pause  should  be  varied  ;  occasionally 
two  pauses  in  a  verse  have  a  pleasant  effect  :  — 

* 4  Night  after  night,  when  the  w6rld  was  asleep,  as  the  watchman 
repeated." 

(g)  Verse  of  Seven  Stresses. 

This  has  already  been  noticed  in  the  ballad  measure 
(cf  Chapman's  translation),  both  in  its  original  form, 
and  in  the  popular  arrangement  of  four- and -three, 
whether  with  or  without  rimed  pause-accents. 


A  verse  of  more  than  eight  stresses  can  in  nearly  all 
cases  be  separated  into  two  verses  of  four  stresses  each. 
Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall,  however,  is  best  printed  as 
eight-stress  verse  :  thus 

"  Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest " 
is  better  than 

u  Full  of  sad  experience,  moving 
Toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest." 

Cf  also  Poe's  Raven,  which  has  interior  rime. 


232 


POETICS. 


(fi)  Miscellaneous. 

Imitations  of  classic  metres  are  not  confined  to 
hexameter  verse.  The  "  elegiac "  verse,  in  which 
"  pentameter "  alternated  with  "hexameter/'  has  been 
occasionally  tried  by  English  poets,  but  not  so  much  as 
in  Germany ;  Coleridge's  translation  from  Schiller  is 
well  known  :  — 

In  the  hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  column, 
In  the  pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  back.1' 

Tennyson  has  some  "  Alcaics  "  to  Milton  :  — 

"  O  mighty-mdutrTd  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skflFd  to  smg  of  time  or  eternity, 
God-gifted  organ  voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages ! 17 

Milton  himself  has  very  gracefully  Englished  one  of 
Horace's  Odes  (i.  5)  :  — 

"  What  slender  youth  bedew'd  with  liquid  odours 
Courts  thee  on  roses  in  some  pleasant  cave, 
Pyrrha  ?    For  whom  bind'st  thou 
In  wreaths  thy  golden  hair?  V 

Compare  with  this  the  exquisite  Ode  to  Evening  of 
Collins. 

The  difficult  "  Hendecasyllabic  "  verse,  as  used  by  the 
Roman  Catullus,  has  been  imitated  by  Coleridge,  Ten- 
nyson, and  Swinburne.  The  latter  poet  has  even  es- 
sayed the  "  Choriambic  "  verse  :  — 

"  L6ve,  what  |  ailed  thee  to  leave  |  life  that  was  made  |  ldvely,  we 
thought  I  with  love? 
What  sweet  |  visions  of  sleep  |  lured  thee  away  |  down  from  the 
light  I  above?" 


METRES   OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


233 


Bulwer  wrote  a  collection  of  stories,  The  Lost  Tales 
of  Miletus,  all  in  classical  metres  ;  nor  must  we  forget 
the  rimeless  rhythm  of  Southey,  as  in  Thalaba,  or  of 
Matthew  Arnold,  as  in  The  Strayed  Reveller,  and  the 
highly  successful  choruses  (with  sporadic  rime)  of  the 
Samson  Agonistes. 

But  it  may  be  said,  notwithstanding  these  cases,  that 
with  the  possible  exception  of  the  hexameter,  the  move- 
ment of  classical  metres  does  not  harmonize  with  the 
fundamental  conditions  of  Germanic  rhythm. 


234 


POETICS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

§  I.    THE  STANZA,  OR  STROPHE. 

This  is  a  subject  which  presents  few  difficulties  ;  for 
the  construction  of  a  stanza  appeals  to  the  eye,  and 
cannot  be  mistaken.  A  verse  is  the  unit  of  every 
poem.  Verses  are  combined  in  two  ways,  —  either 
continuously,  as  in  blank  verse,  the  classic  hexameter, 
and  our  Anglo-Saxon  metre ;  or  they  may  be  bound 
together  in  a  stanza,  which  in  its  turn  goes  with  other 
stanzas  to  make  up  a  poem  or  a  division  of  a  poem. 
The  simplest  of  these  combinations  is  the  couplet, 
which,  however,  in  practice  is  not  looked  on  as  a  stan- 
za ;  for  the  heroic  couplet  often  has  a  continuous,  epic 
effect.  Next  comes  the  triplet,  which  is  decidedly  stan- 
zaic  in  effect :  cf.  Tennyson's  Two  Voices. 

Strophe  means  literally  "a  turning":  cf.  verse.  At 
the  end  of  the  strophe  we  turn,  and  repeat  the  same 
conditions  :  it  is  "  the  return  of  the  song  to  the  melody 
with  which  it  begins."  Stanza,  under  another  symbol, 
means  the  same  thing.  We  demand  for  the  stanza 
identity  of  structure  and  a  close  connection  of  state- 
ment and  subject-matter.  The  two  factors  of  the  stanza 
are  the  Refrain  and  Rime.  Thus  Lamb's  Old  Familiar 
Faces  has  no  rime  ;  but  the  recurrence  of  these  three 
words  marks  the  end  of  a  strophe.  The  Refrain,  ac- 
cording to  Wolff  {Lais,  Sequenzen,  etc.),  "probably 
arose  from  the  participation  of  the  people  or  congrega- 
tion in  songs  which  were  sung  by  one  or  more  persons 
on  festal  occasions,  —  at  church,  play,  or  dance.  The 


THE  STANZA,   OR  STROPHE. 


235 


whole  people  repeated  in  chorus  single  words,  or  verses, 
or  whole  stanzas  ...  or  in  the  pauses  of  the  chief 
singer,  they  answered  him  with  some  repeated  cry.  .  .  . 
This  became  finally  a  regular  form."  Through  the 
Provencal  poetry  these  refrains  came  into  England. 
They  are  common  in  the  old  folk-song,  and  the  reader 
is  familiar  with  them  in  many  modern  ballads  ;  cf.  also 
the  Epithalamion.  The  refrain  may  be  in  another 
tongue  :  cf.  Byron's  Maid  of  Athens. 

But  the  prevailing  method  of  combining  verses  is  by 
end-rime ;  and  here  we  distinguish  between  stanzas 
where  the  verses  are  homogeneous,  and  stanzas  made 
up  of  verses  with  a  varying  number  of  accents,  though 
rarely  with  varying  movement.  It  would  require  a  vol- 
ume to  catalogue  all  the  combinations  in  our  poetry  ; 
any  one  can  easily  determine  the  form  of  a  stanza  for 
himself  by  noting  the  order  of  rimes.  A  decidedly 
different  effect  is  made  by  two  stanzas  which  may  be 
alike  in  movement  and  number  of  verses,  but  unlike 
in  rime-order.  Thus  the  common  four-stress  quatrain 
with  alternate  rime  (the  number  four  being  very  popu- 
lar in  lyric  poetry)  : 

"  How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  highest  skill," 

has  a  quite  different  effect  from  the  arrangement  of  the 
In  Memoriam  stanza,  —  a  combination  found  in  Ben 
Jonson,  Prior,  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  and  others:  — 

"  Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song." 


236 


POETICS. 


The  first  we  denote  by  the  letters  abab ;  the  second  by 
abba.  Still  another  variation  is  aabay  the  stanza  made 
popular  in  Fitzgerald's  translation  of  the  quatrains  of 
Omar  Khayyam. 

But  of  these  the  simplest  and  by  all  odds  the  most 
popular  is  the  first, — abab;  or  with  only  two  rimes, 
abcb.  Here,  too,  we  may  note  another  division  of  the 
simple  stanza  (cf.  Schipper,  p.  84).  The  rimes  b  b  mark 
each  the  end  of  a  "  Period," — i.e.,  they  denote  the  neces- 
sary rime  of  the  quatrain,  and  hence  divide  it  into  equal 
parts.  Two  verses  make  a  period,  two  periods  make  a 
quatrain  (if  of  this  form),  because  one  period  exactly 
repeats  the  conditions  of  the  other.  To  mark  the  end 
of  this  period,  a  different  ending  is  often  employed  : 
thus,  if  a  a  (or  a  c)  are  masculine,  b  b  will  be  feminine, 
and  vice  versa.    Thus  abcb  (Burns)  :  — 

"  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o1  wine, 
And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie ; 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 
A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie  ;  " 

or  abab  (Prior)  :  — 

M  The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
Conveys  it  in  a  borrowed  name ; 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure, 
But  Chloe  is  my  real  flame.'" 

Still  more  marked  is  the  period  when  b  b  are  verses 
with  fewer  or  more  stresses  than  a  a  (a  c),  as  was  the 
case  with  the  divided  Septenary  (common  measure) 
already  noted,  in  which  bb  have  fewer  accents  than 
a  a  (c)  ;  a  case  where  b  b  have  more  is 

"  Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 

Of  climbing  heaven  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 
Wandering  companionless 

Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth  ?  "  —  Shelley. 


THE  STANZA,   OR  STROPHE. 


237 


The  quatrain,  most  popular  of  stanzas  and  the  sim- 
plest, is  also  common  in  five-stress  verse.  The  rime- 
order  ab  ab  is  that  of  our  most  read  poem,  the  Elegy. 
Dryden  used  it  in  Annus  Mirabilis,  in  imitation  of 
Davenant's  Gondibert ;  and  we  have  seen  even  six- 
stress  verse  so  combined.  But  there  are  more  compli- 
cated forms.  Thus  to  a  quatrain  we  add  a  couplet,  and 
so  have  the  three-part  stanza,  consisting  of  two  periods 
and  the  couplet ;  or  we  can  combine  differently  —  say 
aabccb,  —  the  form  of  Shakspere's  song  in  Hen.  VIII. 
—  Orpheus  with  his  lute;  or,  with  varying  verse-lengths •, 
of  Wordsworth's  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower. 
Thence  we  pass  to  the  far  more  intricate  combinations 
of  lyric  stanzas,  —  combinations  which  we  shall  not 
here  attempt  to  analyze.  The  study  of  these  forms  is 
of  more  importance  for  our  early  poetry  than  for  mod- 
ern, and  is  of  too  special  a  nature  for  our  attention. 
Many  treatises,  from  Dante's  De  vulgari  Eloquentia 
down  to  the  dissertations  of  to-day,  have  been  written 
on  this  subject  :  they  are  well  summed  up  by  Schipper 
in  his  Metrik,  §§  134-145. 

It  will  be  enough  for  our  purposes  if  we  simply  name 
a  few  prominent  English  stanzaic  forms.  Thus  the 
favorite  stanza  of  Chaucer,  the  Rime  Royal  of  his  Troi- 
lus  and  some  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  has  for  its 
scheme  ab  ab  b  c  c,  —  e.g.  {Prioresses  Tale)  :  — 

"  My  conning  is  so  wayk,  O  blisful  quene, 
For  to  declare  thy  grete  worthinesse, 
That  I  ne  may  the  weigh te  nat  sustene, 
But  as  a  child  of  twelf  months  old,  or  lesse, 
That  can  unnethes  any  word  expresse, 
Right  so  fan?  I,  and  therfor  I  you  preye, 
Gydeth  my  song  that  I  shal  of  you  seye." 


238 


POETICS. 


Somewhat  different  is  the  stanza  of  his  Monk's  Tale: 
ababbcbc.  Now  if  we  add  c  to  this,  we  have  the 
famous  Spenserian  Stanza,  —  ababbcbc  c, —  the  last 
line  being  an  Alexandrine,  the  rest,  like  Chaucer's 
entire  stanza,  five-stress  "iambic"  verse.  Cf.  Faery 
Queene :  — 

"  And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  t1  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard  :  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  far  from  enimies.,1 

Mr.  Arnold  has  justly  praised  the  '''fluidity"  of  the 
Spenserian  stanza.  Thomson  {Castle  of  Indolence)  and 
Byron  (Childe  Harold)  have  added  to  its  popularity. 
Simpler  than  the  above  is  the  easy  pace  of  the  stanza 
(Ottava  Rima),  used  by  Spenser  in  some  minor  poems, 
and  chosen  by  Byron  for  his  Don  Juan,  and  by  Keats 
for  his  Isabella :  ab  ab  ab  c  c. 

It  remains  to  mention  two  other  kinds  of  stanza  — 
what  we  may  call  the  run-on  stanza,  and  the  irregular 
(and  also  regular)  combinations  of  verses  in  the  Ode. 
The  Terza  Rima  of  Dante's  great  poem  was  copied  by 
Surrey  (cf.  the  first  poem  in  Tottel's  Misc.,  ed.  Arber), 
but  without  making  it  popular.  Byron  used  it  in  his 
Prophecy  of  Dante,  and  Shelley  in  his  Ode  to  the  West 
Wind,  though  often  the  manner  of  printing  conceals 
the  metre.  The  stanzas  of  three  lines  are  interlaced 
thus  :  aba  —  bcb  —  cdc  —  ded,  etc. 


THE  SONNET. 


239 


"  O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow  and  black  and  pale  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !    O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow,"  etc. 

Cf  also  some  of  the  French  forms  of  verse  mentioned 
below. 

The  Ode  is  mostly  written  in  arbitrary  stanzas  of 
varying  verse-lengths :  cf  Wordsworth's  Immortality 
Ode.  But  there  is  also  a  regular  arrangement :  cf.  the 
elaborate  "  Pindaric  "  Odes  of  Gray, —  The  Progress  of 
Poetry  and  The  Bard}  For  classical  exactness,  see  the 
Choruses  of  Swinburne's  Erechtheus,  where  the  elabo- 
rate structure  of  Strophe,  Antistrope  and  Epode  is 
managed  with  great  ability ;  the  same  is  true  of  other 
Odes  by  Swinburne. 

§  2.    THE  SONNET. 

There  are  certain  combinations  of  verse  in  which  a 
single  element  of  rime-arrangement  dominates  the 
entire  poem.  Most  practised  and  best  known  of  these 
is  the  Sonnet.  This  word,  as  Mr.  T.  H.  Caine  (Sonnets 
of  Three  Centuries)  has  pointed  out,  meant  originally  "  a 
little  strain,"  and  was  used  by  Italian  poets  "to  denote 

1  There  are  nine  stanzas  so  arranged  that  the  first,  fourth,  and  seventh 
are  alike  in  construction;  likewise  the  second, fifth,  and  eighth;  and  the 
third,  sixth,  and  ninth. 


240 


POETICS. 


simply  a  short  poem  limited  to  the  exposition  of  a 
single  idea,  sentiment,  or  emotion."  The  next  step 
was  to  confine  its  form  ;  fourteen  lines  became  the  fixed 
length  of  the  sonnet.  Lastly,  these  lines  were  required 
to  be  combined  according  to  certain  definite  rules. 

Our  English  sonnets,  therefore,  are  of  different  kinds. 
Mr.  Caine  ranges  under  the  first  class  sonnets  like  those 
of  Shakspere.  This  form  is  by  no  means  that  of  the 
strict  Italian  Sonnets ;  "  it  does  not  ...  as  in  the 
Italian  form,  fall  asunder  like  the  acorn  into  unequal 
parts  of  a  perfect  organism,  but  is  sustained  without 
break  until  it  reaches  a  point  at  which  a  personal  appro- 
priation needs  to  be  made."  That  is,  we  have  the 
symbol  and  then  —  mostly  in  the  concluding  couplet  — 
the  application.    The  Shaksperian  form  is  thus  :  — 

ab  ab  c  dc  de f  e fgg, 

that  is,  three  quatrains  with  alternate  rime,  followed  by 
a  couplet. 

Different  is  the  form  in  the  noble  sonnets  of  Milton. 
The  rimes  follow  Petrarch's  rule  of  four  different  vowel- 
sounds,  and  the  whole  is  divided  into  two  unequal  parts, 
the  octave  and  sestette.    The  scheme  is  thus  :  — 

abbaabbaW  cdcdcdy 
though  the  sestette  can  be  differently  arranged.  Still, 
even  here  it  is  merely  the  form  that  is  Italian.  The 
progress  of  the  idea  is  English.  The  sense  flows  on 
without  break  from  the  octave  into  the  sestette  ;  where- 
as the  Italian  sonnet  was  required  at  the  end  of  the 
octave  to  have  a  complete  change  in  the  idea. 

Much  closer  to  the  Italian  model  is  the  sonnet  as 
written  by  more  recent  poets.     The  excellence  of 


FRENCH  FORMS. 


24I 


Shakspere's  sonnet  as  critics  esteem  it,  is  the  climax 
to  which  it  rises  by  means  of  the  closing  couplet.  Mil- 
ton's sonnet  has  been  compared  to  a  rocket  rapidly 
thrown  off,  then  "  breaking  into  light  and  falling  in  a 
soft  shower  of  brightness.,,  The  later  school,  however, 
aim  to  write  sonnets  that  shall  reproduce  the  rise  and 
fall  of  a  billow,  or  its  flowing  and  ebbing.  The  idea 
and  the  verse  rise  together  in  the  octave,  and  in  the 
sestette  fall  back  again.  The  rime-order  is  Italian. 
For  these  three  kinds  of  sonnet,  let  the  reader  study 
a  good  specimen  of  each,  and  compare  the  relative 
advantages,  —  say  Shakspere's  When  to  the  sessions  of 
sweet  silent  thought  (Sonnet  30)  ;  Milton  On  the  Late 
Massacre  in  Piedmont  (Avenge,  O  Lord)  ;  and  Keats 
On  first  looking  into  Chapman  s  Homer.  Wordsworth's 
sonnets  sway  between  the  two  last  kinds  :  cf  his  West- 
minster  Bridge  with  the  sonnet  beginning  The  world  is 
too  much  with  us. 

§  3.   FRENCH  FORMS. 

Of  late,  considerable  effort  has  been  put  forth  to 
introduce  into  our  English  verse-system  the  forms 
known  to  French  poetry  (cf.  p.  55)  as  Rondel,  Rondeau, 
Triolet,  Villanelle,  Ballade,  and  Chant  Royal.  "The  first 
three,"  says  Mr.  Gosse,  "are  habitually  used  for  joyous 
or  gay  thought,  and  lie  most  within  the  province  of  jeu 
d'  esprit  and  epigram ;  the  last  three  are  usually  wedded 
to  serious  or  stately  expression,  and  almost  demand  a 
vein  of  pathos."  So  far,  these  forms  are  not  naturalized 
as  English  measures  ;  but  they  are  practised  to  a  con- 
siderable extent.  It  requires  an  immense  talent  to 
write  them  with  that  ease  and  grace  which  they  always 


242 


POETICS. 


demand  ;  the  slightest  trace  of  effort  ruins  them.  We 
have  space  for  but  one  example,  —  a  Triolet  by  Austin 
Dobson  :  — 

"  I  intended  an  ode 
And  it  turned  into  triolets, 
It  began  a  la  mode : 
I  intended  an  ode, 
But  Rose  crossed  the  road 
With  a  bunch  of  fresh  violets ; 
I  intended  an  ode, 
And  it  turned  into  triolets.'" 

The  Rondel  and  Rondeau  are  also  light  measures.  The 
latter  has  thirteen  verses  and  only  two  rimes.  The 
Villanelle  has  also  only  two  rimes,  and  is  written  in 
stanzas  continued  at  pleasure  (or  as  one's  rimes  last), 
and  made  up  of  three  verses  each,  with  a  couplet  at  the 
end.  The  Ballade  and  the  Chant  Royal  are  much  more 
complicated.  The  details  of  construction  of  all  these 
forms,  with  examples,  can  be  found  in  Mr.  Gosse's 
article  on  Foreign  Forms  of  Verse  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine  for  July,  1877.  There  are  also  examples  in 
Adams'  collection  of  Latter-Day  Lyrics ;  and  Mr.  Swin- 
burne has  recently  published  A  Century  of  Roundels. 
The  ingenuity,  however,  which  is  required  for  the  con- 
struction of  these  stanzas  makes  it  doubtful  that  they 
will  ever  voice  the  higher  moods  of  poetry.  The  great 
lyric  poets,  like  Goethe,  do  their  best  work  in  simple 
forms  of  verse,  in  that  "  popular  tone  "  nearest  to  the 
heart  of  singer  as  well  as  hearer. 


INDEX. 


INDEX. 


ABBOTT,  on  Shaksp.,  123,  215,  217,  220.  Abstract,  84;  for  concrete,  93; 
personif.  of,  101.  Abraham  and  Isaac,  61.  Academy,  The,  134.  Accent,  133 
ff.  139  ff.  144,  166;  of  word,  139,  192,  211,  220;  of  verse,  141,  145,  220;  of  sen- 
tence, 140,  171  f.  191,  211,  214,  220  f. ;  see  also  Stress,  Hovering  Accent,  etc. 
Action,  in  drama,  61,  72  f. ;  in  mysteries,  63 ;  unity  of,  70 ;  surroundings  of,  74. 
Acts  (drama),  72.  Adjectives,  85,  106.  ^Eneas,  21.  ^Eschylus,  75,  116. 
Albert,  Paul,  40.  Alexander,  21.  Alexandrine,  180,  182,  184  f.  197,  202,  208, 
222,  227  f.  238.  Allegory,  23  ff. ;  in  style,  102  ff.  Alliteration,  see  Rime. 
Alliterating  Romances,  178.  Allusion,  no.  Anacreon,  52  f.  Anapestic,  170, 
etc.  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  n,  86,  108,  112  f.  120;  metres,  174  ff.  204.  Anti- 
climax, 131.  Antithesis,  55,  119,  126  ff.  Apostrophe,  121.  Apposition,  105. 
Arabs,  154.  Areopagus  (club),  159.  Ariosto,  34.  Aristotle,  1,  42,  72,  74. 
Armstrong,  28.  Arnold,  Matthew,  4,  46,  51,  224,  229  f. ;  29,  49,  160,  208,  233. 
Arsis,  136.    Arthur,  King,  25.    Assonance,  156.    Avesta,  142. 

BACON,  84.  Balance,  127,  172.  Ballad,  34  ff.  38  f.  56 ;  measure,  183,  197, 
231.  Ballade,  55,  241  f.  Barbour,  184.  Barclay,  Alex.,  194.  Barnefield,  R., 
196.  Batteux,  Abbe,  41.  Beaumont,  50 ;  and  Fletcher,  47,  52.  Beast-Epic,  26. 
Bentley,  225.  Beowa,  13.  Beowulf,  n  ff.  86,  97  f.  112, 152, 173, 174  ff.  Bestiary, 
26.  Blair,  115.  Blake,  W.,  46  f.  169.  Blank  Verse,  41,  151,  157  ff.  197  ff.  213 
ff.  etc.  "  Bob,"  The,  201.  Boccaccio,  33.  Boileau,  32.  Boniface,  24.  Bow- 
ring,  43.  Broadside,  38.  Broken  Construction,  125.  Browne,  G.  H.,  218. 
Browne,  William,  30.  Browning,  E.  B.  129.  Browning,  R.,  38 ;  43,  47,  50, 
82,  106,  108,  203,  207,  209.  Brunanburh,  19.  Bulwer,  233.  Burns,  R.,  47,  57; 
3°i  32»  33.  38,  43,  44,  46,  52,  113,  122,  203,  204,  205,  236.  Butler,  32.  Byrhtnoth, 
19.  36»  38>  T76.  Byron,  33,  43,  44,  57 ;  122,  124,  158,  172,  182,  183,'  204,  205, 
207,  212,  235,  238. 

CADENCE,  163.  Cgedmon,  20,  94,  173.  Caesura,  135,  148, 193  ;  see  Pause. 
Caine,  T.  H.,  239  f.  Campbell,  38,  43,  155.  Campion,  159,  230.  Carew,  53,96. 
Carey,  H.,  82.  Carriere,  M.,  42,  57,  80.  Catachresis,  94,  107.  Catechisms,  28. 
Catullus,  232.  Cenotaph,  56.  Chanson  de  Roland,  156.  Chant  Royal,  55, 
241  f.  Chapman,  95 ;  34,  183,  197,  231.  Characters  (drama),  61,  64.  Charade, 
33.  Charlemagne,  21.  Charms,  56.  Chatterton,  37.  CHAUCER,  22,  24,  32,76, 
173;  Canterbury  Tales,  20  ff.  26,  33  ;  116,  128  f.  152,  161,  164,  187, 189  ff.  Boke 
Duchesse,  184,  187;  House  Fame,  24,  46,  179,  184,  187;  Troilus,  21,  104,  no; 
Legende  G.  W.,  187 ;  his  verse,  172,  174,  186  ff.  203,  237.  Child,  35,  36,  194. 
Children  in  the  Wood,  The,  39.  Choriambic  Verse,  232.  Chorus,  9,  69, 74,  76, 
82,  233.    Chronicle,  22.    Church,  7,  20,  59.    Cicero,  121.    Classic  Simile,  107  f. 


246 


INDEX. 


110,  144.  Clerkes,  45,  52,  182.  Climax,  72  f.  130  f.  Clough,  A.  H.,  33,  53,  104, 
230.  Clown,  The,  60.  Coleridge,  23,  38,  43,  130, 153,  182,  203,  232.  Collins,  43, 
47,  102,  117,  160,  232.  Combination,  Figures  of,  125  ff.  Comedy,  22, 61, 68,73  f. 
76  ff.  Comic  Histories,  32.  Comparative  Philology,  83.  Conceits,  95  f.  Con- 
crete (for  abstract) ,  84,  93.  Congreve,  77.  Consonants,  162.  Constable,  196. 
Contractions,  164, 190  f.  214  f.  Connexion,  Tropes  of,  111  ff.  Contrast,  Tropes 
of,  90,  114  f. ;  figures,  121  ff.  Convivial  Lyric,  52.  Costumes,  62  f.  Couplet 
(short),  154,  179,  182,  184,  186;  heroic,  31,  41,  187  f.  199,  210  f.  228,  234.  Cow- 
per,  53 ;  27  f.  39,  49,  50,  103,  147,  205.  Crashaw,  95.  Crowley,  152.  Cuckoo- 
Song,  46,  56.    Cynewulf,  18,  20,  33,  152,  173. 

DACTYL,  138,  167  f.  etc.  Dancing,  1  f.  9,  134  ff.  Daniel,  S.,  54,  106,  144, 
159.  Dante,  24,  34,  76,  89,  94,  no,  224,  237  f.  Davenant,  237.  David,  39. 
Death  (lyric),  49  f.  116.  Deborah,  Song  of,  119.  Dekker,  40.  Derzhavin,  43. 
Description,  28  f.  48.  Dialogues,  16,  60,78,82.  Didactic,  22,24,51.  Dionysian 
Feasts,  59,  75  f.  Dirge,  49.  Distribution,  112.  Dithyramb,  42.  Dobson,  A., 
242.  Don  Quixote,  21.  Donne,  32;  119.  Double  Ending,  209,  216,  223;  see 
Rime.  Douglas,  Gawin,  194,  197.  Dovvden,  E.,  77,  147.  Drama,  58  ff.  70,  74  f. 
80  ff. ;  rules  for,  69  ff. ;  parts  of,  72 ;  metre  of,  63,  157  f.  180,  187.  Drayton,  M., 
38,  45,  148,  185,  227  f.  Dream,  see  Vision.  Dryden,  4,  79,  95,  126,  128, 145, 148, 
158,  210;  25,  32,  51,  no,  237.    Dumb-Show,  69,  72.    Dunbar,  24,  178,  194. 

E  (final),  188  ff.  Ebert,  24,  38.  Eclogue,  80.  Edward,  60.  Elegy,  49  f. 
Elegiac,  50,  232.  Eliot,  Geo.,  51,  156.  Elizabethan  (lyric),  45  f.  199;  see  also 
Drama.  Elision,  164,  190  f.  Ellis,  194;  134,  171  f.  215,  220.  Emerson,  73. 
Emotion,  42.  End-stopt,  147,  149,  194,  211,  222  f.  Enthusiasm,  41  f.  Epic, 
10  ff.  19  ff.  33,  41 ;  style,  109  etc. ;  verse,  187,  203,  etc.  Epigram,  55,  no,  127. 
Epilogue,  72.  Episodes,  16.  Epithets,  85,  87.  Epitaph,  55,  103.  Equation  of 
Claims,  173.  Eumenides,  116.  Euphemism,  116.  Euphuism,  126, 152.  Every 
Man,  65  f.  180.  Exodus,  20,  94.  Expanded  Words,  214,  218  f.  Exposition 
(drama),  72. 

FABLE,  25  f.  Fair  Helen,  36,  46.  Falling  Feet,  167.  Farce,  77.  Feelings, 
[2.  Feminine  (pause),  149;  (rime),  155,  193;  (ending),  209,  236.  Fielding, 
H.,  82.  Figures,  85,  118  ff.  Fitzgerald  (Omar  Khayyam),  236.  Five-Stress 
Verse,  195  f.  208  ff.  Fleay,  213,  216.  Fletcher,  81,  146,  216.  Fluidity  (verse), 
163,  238.  Folk-Song,  see  Ballad.  Fool  (drama),  60.  Foot,  135,  167,  etc. 
Formula  (epic),  16.  Four  (lyric),  235.  Four-Stress  Verse,  182, 186  f.  196,  203  ff. 
French  Forms,  55,  241. 

GAMMER  GURTON'S  NEEDLE,  52.  Gascoigne,  Geo.,  142,  152,  185, 
196  f.  214.  Gawayne  and  Green  Knight,  25,  178.  Gawayne,  Marriage  of,  37. 
Gay,  26.  Genesis,  101  f.  114.  Genitive  (style),  105  f.  Germanic,  7  f.  86  f.  135, 
153,  233 ;  metre,  rule  of,  144,  191.  Gervinus,  60.  Gesture,  106.  Ghosts,  73. 
Gnomic  Dialogue,  26.  Goethe,  41,  57,  242 ;  30,  50,  72,  80,  230.  Golding,  183. 
Goldsmith,  77,  95,  107;  28,  39,  123.  Gorboduc,  68,  72,  82,  157.  Gosse,  E.,  43, 
55,  241  f.    Gower,  184.    Grail,  20.    Gray  (Elegy), 50,  91,  112,  139,  192,  209,  237; 


INDEX. 


247 


(misc.)  51,  93,  122,  239.  Greek,  67,  140  f.  144  f.  176.  Greene,  R.,  196  f.  230. 
Gregory,  Pope,  24.  Grimm,  J.,  3.  Grimm,  W.,  14,  153.  Guarini,  81.  Guest, 
Dr.,  146,  205  f.  226. 

HARMONY,  1.  Harrowing  Hell,  63.  Havelok,  19.  Hawes,  S.,  194.  He- 
brew Poetry,  88.  Hegel,  40,  108.  Heinzel,  86.  Heliand,  102.  Hendecasylla- 
bic,  232.  Henrysoun,  30,  194.  Herbert,  George,  43,  51.  Herbert,  Lord,  235. 
Heroic  Verse,  168,  186  ff.  209  ff.  Herrick,  47,  53,  84,  200  f.  Hexameter,  31,  41, 
138,  228  ff.  Heywood,  J.,  67.  Heywood,  Thos.  160.  Hiatus,  165,  190.  His- 
tory, 20,  32 ;  historical  present,  122.  Homer,  40,  107,  109,  229.  Hood,  T.,  50, 
120,  155,  200  f.  Horace,  31,  72.  Hovering  Accent,  142,  186,  192,  206,  220,  224, 
226  f.  Human  Interest,  29,  48, 60.  Hunt,  L.,  26.  Hymn,  9,  42,  153.  Hyper- 
bole, 115. 

IAMBIC,  167  ff.  187, 192, 195  f.  213  f.  etc.  Ictus,  138,  143 ;  see  Stress.  Idyll, 
30,  80.  Iliad,  18,  96,  etc.  Imagination,  2,  48,  90.  Individual  Author,  15,  57. 
Inflexional  Endings,  188,  220.  Instance,  no.  Interlude,  67.  International 
Literature,  18.  Invention,  1,  4,  15,  23.  Inversion,  84,  123  f.  Irony,  117.  Ital- 
ian Influences,  54,  67,  173,  239.    Iteration,  118  f. 

JOHNSON,  DR.,  32, 127, 131.  Jones,  SirW.,  43,  127.  Jonson,  Ben,  5,  72, 
160,  235 ;  51,  68,  81,  205  f.    Judith,  20.    Juvenal,  31. 

KAIMS,  LORD,  116.  Katharsis,  42,  74.  Keats,  22,  34,  37,  47  f.  54,  91,  99, 
101,  105,  108,  119,  124,  126,  128,  145,  158,  198,  211,  227,  238.  Kenning,  16,  87. 
King  Edward,  177.  King  Horn,  19,  179.  King  John  (Morality),  66.  Kings- 
ley,  C.,  230.    Klopstock,  230. 

LADY  ISABEL,  37.  La  Fontaine,  26,  33.  Lamb,  51,  209,  234.  Landor, 
55.  Lanier,  166.  Latin,  59,  67,  140,  145,  153  ff.  Layamon,  19,  152, 178  f.  Lee, 
115.  Legend,  9.  Lessing,  5,  48,  70,  79,  107.  Light  Ending,  212,  223.  Liquid 
(conson.),  162,  217.  Litotes,  116.  Locker,  53.  Logical  (style),  90,  113  f. ; 
(verse),  148.  Longfellow,  22,  138,  159,  205,  230  f.  Lord  Randal  (Donald),  60, 
204.  Lovelace,  46,  115,  129.  Lowell,  75.  Lucretius,  28,  100.  Lusty  Juventus, 
66.  Lydgate,  194.  Lyly,  126,  152.  Lyndesay,  194.  Lyric,  39  ff.  199 ;  (Nor- 
man), 154. 

MACAULAY,  3,  38.  Madrigal,  45.  Maker,  17  f.  Malherbe,  49.  Man- 
nyng,  R.,  185.  Mapes,  52,  182.  Marie  de  France,  26.  Marlowe,  69,  85,  157 ; 
22,  45,  158,  198  f.  212.  Marseillaise,  43.  Marston,  32, 156.  Marvell,  48,  51, 158. 
Masculine  (pause),  149;  (rime),  155,  236,  etc.  Mask,  68,  81.  Mass,  The,  59. 
Mathematical  (style),  90,  in.  Melody,  136.  Messenger,  69,  71.  Metaphor, 
85,  90  ff.  94,  96,  104.  Metonomy,  94,  113  f.  Metre,  1,  133  ff.  137,  170  ff.  63; 
(Germanic),  144,  191;  (modern),  173  f.  186,  195  ff.  199;  (dist'd  from  rhythm), 
185  f.  Metrical  Scheme,  170  f.  200,  208,  222  ff.  Middleton,  216.  MlLTON,  54, 
84,  123,  149;  (on  rime),  157  f.  173,  198;  (his  verse),  224  ff.  Comus,  25,  68,  81, 
98,  101,  in,  115,  225.    Horace,  232.    II  Pens.  48.    L'All.  48,  98,  129,  148, 169  f. 


248 


INDEX. 


205  f.  Lycidas,  39,  43,  49,  54,  118,  125,  162.  Nat.  Hymn,  104,  123,  220.  Para- 
dise Lost,  34;  (quoted),  91,  94,  100,  109,  112  ff.  116, 118  f.  120, 123  ff.  129  f.  149  f. 
161,  163,  212,  224  ff.  Par.  Reg.  187.  Samson,  76,  233.  Sonnets,  54,  164,  191, 
240  f.  Minot,  L.,  180,  204.  Minnesanger,  41,  45.  Minstrels,  io,  13  f.  41. 
Miracle  Plays,  59  f.  62.  Monologue,  82.  Mnemonic,  28.  Mock-Tragedy,  82. 
Monte-Mayor,  30.  Moore,  T.,  53 ;  202,  207,  209.  Moral  Plays,  59,  62,  64  ff. 
157.  Morris,  W.,  22,  228.  Murder  of  Abel,  61,  63.  Music,  1,  41,  134,  136  f. 
143.  Myrroure  for  Magistrates,  22  f.  Mysteries,  59,  62  ff.  157, 180.  Mythology, 
9,  96  f.  101. 

NAIRN,  LADY,  201.  Nash,  T.,  50,  229  f.  National  (heroes),  13,  19; 
(legends),  19.  Nature  (see  Lyric),  49.  New  Learning,  The,  173.  Nichol,  J., 
105,  130.  Nomenclature  (verse),  167.  Noah's  Flood, 61.  Norman  Influences, 
152,  154,  177.    Number,  Change  of,  122.    Nurture,  Book  of,  28. 

OBJECTIVITY  (drama),  58.  Occleve,  194.  Octave,  54,  241.  Odyssey, 
15  ff.  32.  Ode,  42  f.  239.  Omar  Khayyam,  236.  One-Stress  (verse),  200. 
Onomatopoeia,  139,  161  f.  Opera,  41,  81.  Ormulum,  183.  Ottava  Rima,  238. 
Ovid,  161.    Owl  and  Nightingale,  32,  184.   Oxymoron,  128  f. 

PAGEANT,  62.  Parable,  26.  Paradox,  128.  Parallel  Constr.  126  f.  128. 
Parallelism,  120.  Parfre,  64.  Parody,  32.  Passionate  Pilgrim,  196.  Pastoral, 
29,  81.  Pathetic,  51.  Pause,  139,  145  ff.  224;  compensating,  146,  218  f. ;  rhyth- 
mical, 147,  203,  216,  226,  231 ;  logical,  148 ;  in  Chaucer,  193  f. ;  in  Five-Stress 
Verse,  208,  221,  224;  dramatic,  147.  Pearl,  The,  25.  Peele,  Geo.,  162,  197. 
Period  (stanza),  236.  Periods  of  Eng.  Verse,  173.  Periphrase,  112  f.  Per- 
sonality, 41.  Personification,  9,  93,  96  ff.  104.  Petrarch,  240.  Phaer,  183. 
Phonetic,  134.  Physiologus,  26,  104.  Pictures  (words),  83.  Piers  the  Plow- 
man, Vision  concerning,  25,  152,  177  f.  Pindar,  41.  Pitch,  134, 136, 143.  Place 
(drama),  71.  Platen,  Count,  229.  Plautus,  67  ff.  76.  Poe,  231.  Poema  Mo- 
rale, 27,  182.  Poetics,  Writers  on,  5.  Poetry,  1  ff.  90 ;  compared  with  Prose,  2, 
84,  134;  style  of,  83  ff.  Pope,  101,  116,  126,  128,  145,  191,  210;  27,  30,  32,34,43, 
99,  119,  122,  126,  129,  131,  148,  162.  Poulter's  Meas.,  185,  195.  Praed,  33,  53. 
Prefixes,  217.  Prior,  26,  32, 53, 127, 235.  Prolepsis,  124.  Prologue,  72.  Prose, 
2,  84,  157.  Provencal,  154,  235.  Prudentius,  23,  38.  Psalms,  42,  104,  120. 
Pun,  55,  120.    Puttenham,  44  f.  119,  142,  159,  196. 

QUALITY,  136,  171.  Quantity,  137,  143,  151,  166.  Quatrain,  235,  237. 
Question,  124  f.    Quintilian,  121. 

RALPH  ROISTER  DOISTER,  69,  180.  Rant,  115.  Reason,  17.  Rec- 
onciling Drama,  61,  79.  Reflective  Poetry,  27,  42,  47  f.  51.  Refrain,  234. 
Religion,  7,  56,  58  f.  97.  Repetition,  1,  86,  118  ff.  Resemblance  (tropes),  90  ff. 
Resurrection,  La,  59.  Rhythm,  133  ff.  134,  136,  157 ;  135,  203,  214 ;  191  f. 
Richard  (Lion-heart),  45.  Riddle, 33.  Riddle-Ballads,  27.  Rieger,  174.  Rime, 
135,  145,  150  ff.  234 ;  Beginning-Rime,  151  f.  174  f. ;  End-Rime,  152  ff.  176,  179, 


INDEX. 


249 


etc. ;  Perfect,  153,  156,  193 ;  Clashing,  155 ;  in  Chaucer,  192  f. ;  in  Shakspere, 
213 ;  Involved,  155 ;  War  on  Rime,  159 ;  Effect  on  Verse,  212.  Rimed  Phrases, 
152;  Rimeless  Verse,  160,  233.  Riming  Poem,  153,  177.  Rising  Foot,  167. 
Robin  Hood,  36.  Rochester,  55.  Robt.  Gloucester,  22,  185.  Rogers  (drama), 
62.  Rogers  (lyric),  40.  Romance,  21;  (words),  192.  Romaunt  Rose,  24. 
Rondeau,  Rondel,  55,  241.  Roxburghe  Ballads,  38.  Runes,  8.  Run-on 
(Verse),  147,  149,  194,  211,  222,  226;  (Stanza),  238  f.    Ruskin,4,  146,  166. 

SACHSENSPIEGEL,  98.  Sanskrit,  140.  Sarcasm,  131.  Satire,  31  f.  Sa- 
turnian  (Verse),  145, 153.  Scenery,  29,62.  Scheffel,  189.  Scherer,  136, 143, 176. 
Schiller,  70,  232.    Schipper,  138  f.  150,  166,  180,  182,  237.    Scott,  158,  204 ;  23, 

130,  155,  201.  Seneca,  67  ff.  82.  Sense-group,  150.  Sentimental,  51.  Sep- 
tenary, 182  f.  196,  207,  236.  Serenade,  81.  Sestette,  54,  241.  Seward,  150. 
Shakspere,  61,  70  ff.  78  f.  85,95, 157»  v73t  ;  Verse,  213  ff.  Narrative  Poems, 
199,  213 ;  All's  W.  no,  124,  191,  216 ;  A.  and  C.  52,  106,  223  ;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  77  f.  83, 
142,  218;  Cor.  98,  105;  Cym.  47,  49,  80,  114,  155,  217;  Ham.  52,  58,  69,  71,  75, 
79,  82,  94  f.  100,  102  f.  106,  in  ff.  121  ff.  131,  216,  219,  221 ;  H.  IV.,  I.  102;  II. 
106,  114;  H.  V.  44,  79,  82,  221;  H.  VI.,  1.99,221;  111.98,117,128,221;  H. 
VIII.  in,  113  f.  209,  215  f.  222,  237;  Interludes,  68;  John,  92,  98,  103,  109,  113; 
J.  C.  74,  103,  112,  120,  128, 130,  213,  215,  217,  219,  221;  Lear,  29,  70,  74,  78,  86, 
92  f.  98,  102,  109,  161,  216,  219;  L.  L.  L.  149,  213,  222;  152,  196;  Macb.74  f.92  f. 
99,  115,  117,  121,  124,  146,  161,  206,  219;  M.  for  M.  44  f.  80,  105,  147;  M.  of  V. 
45,  80,  91,  106,  no,  114,  125,  219;  M.  N.  D.  201,  213,  219;  Oth.  52,  73  f.  93,  109, 

131,  215;  R.  II.  44,  105  f.  109,  114,  126,  219;  R.  III.  75,  215,  219,  221;  R.  &  J. 
225;  58,  75,  81,  99  f.  114,  129,  218,  223;  Sonnets,  240  f.  54,  92  f.  100,  119,  124, 
126,  213 ;  Temp.  130,  149,  213,  220,  222 ;  T.  N.  77,  202  f. ;  Two  Nob.  Kins.  77 ; 
W.  T.  71 ;  213,  222.  Shelley,  47  ff.  92, 163,  201  ff.  207, 212, 225,  236,  239.  Sheri- 
dan, 77.  Shirley,  50,  129.  Sidney,  4,  30,  54,  71,  82,  101,  196.  Simile,  86,  104  ff. 
Sincerity,  34,  40,  57.  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  39,  60.  Skelton,  181,  202.  Slurring, 
164,  189,  191,  213,  215,  224  f.  Solomon  and  Saturn,  27.  Songs  (drama),  69. 
Sonnet,  54,  no,  239  ff.  Sophocles,  75.  Sounds,  160  ff.  South ey,  200,  233. 
Spanish  Poetry,  156.  Spedding,  J.,  168,  222.  Spencer,  H.,  86,  129.  Spenser, 
25,  30,  44,  80,  91,  99,  146,  199,  209,  235;  (stanza),  238.  Spondee,  229.  Stany- 
hurst,  230.  Stanza  (Strophe),  9,  157,  187, 199  ff.  210,  228,  234  ff.  Sterne,  117. 
Still,  Bishop,  52.  Street-Song,  38.  Stress,  133  f.  137,  166  f.  171  f. ;  verse  of  one, 
200  f. ;  of  two  stresses,  201 ;  of  three,  202 ;  of  four,  203  ff. ;  of  five,  208  ff. ;  of 
six,  227  ff. ;  of  seven,  231.  Strife  between  Summer  and  Winter,  60.  Style,  2, 
83  ff. ;  factors  of  poetical,  93,  96.  Subjective  Drama,  80.  Subject-Matter,  2, 
7  ff.  Sublime,  42.  Suckling,  45,  53,  108.  Supernatural,  23.  Surrey,  54,  157, 
173,  185,  194,  212,  238.  Sweet,  H.,  166,  171.  Sweet,  The  (lyric),  42.  Swift,  53, 
117,  127.  Swinburne,  4,  168 ;  37,  47,  76,  91,  102,  142,  152,  158,  170,  201,  205,  207, 
211,  228,  232,  239,  242.  Syllable,  133,  137;  light  and  heavy,  150,  154,  157,  175, 
221,  227 ;  crowding  of,  161,  163 ;  proportion  of,  171  f. ;  silent,  188 ;  counting  of, 
198 ;  extra,  212,  221  f. ;  dropping  of  light,  146,  174  f.  186,  221,  etc. ;  inflexional, 
188,  220.    Synecdoche,  iit. 


250 


INDEX. 


TACITUS,  7  f.  14.  Tagelieder,  58,  81.  Tasso,  34,  81.  Ten  Brink,  186  ff. 
194.  Tennyson,  30,  44,  49,  56,  89,  93,  106  f.  113,  124  f.  139,  146,  162,  198,  204, 
213,  228,  231  f.  234  f.  Tense,  Change  of,  122.  Terence,  67,  76.  Terza  Rima, 
238  f.  Thackeray,  53.  Theocritus,  80.  Thesis,  136.  Thomas  of  Ercildoune, 
37.  Thomson,  28,  114, 238.  Three-Part  Stanza,  237.  Three-Stress,  202.  Thre- 
nody, 39.  Time,  1,  134,  139, 145;  (unity),  70.  Tone-color,  136.  Tottel's  Misc., 
45.  I95-  Tragedy,  22,  61  f.  68,  73  ff.  78.  Tragi-Comedy,  77,  79.  Transition 
Period,  173,  178  ff.  Translations,  34.  Transposed  Accent,  187,  206,  212,  224, 
226.  Travesty,  32.  Tribrach,  168.  Triolet,  55,  241  f.  Triple  (ending),  216; 
(Measure),  169  f.  207,  215,  223.  Triplet,  234.  Trochaic,  168,  192,  196,  etc. 
Trochee,  167,  etc.  Troilus,  21.  Trope,  84,  87,  88  ff.  118.  Troubadours,  45, 
154.    Tusser,  28.    Two-Stress,  201.    Tye,  C,  163. 

UDALL,  69.    Unities,  70  ff. 

VARIATION,  87,  92,  120.  Vedas,  86.  Vergil,  229;  28,  30,  33,  110,125, 
137.  Verner,  141.  Vers  de  Societe,  53  ff.  Verse,  136,  141  f.  166,  169,  200. 
Verse-Group,  150, 169.  Vice,  The,  60.  Villanelle,  55,  241  f.  Vision,  24  f.  96 ; 
(figure),  122  f.    Voice,  The,  160  f. 

WAGNER,  81.  Waller,  no.  Ward,  A.  W.,  58  f.  72.  Weak  Ending,  149, 
223.  Weapons,  88,  97  f.  Webbe,  159.  Wesley,  42.  Westphal,  135  f.  Whet- 
stone, G.,  71.  Whitney,  W.  D.,  162.  Whittier,  38,  43,  50,  89.  Williams,  Sir 
C.  H.,  117.  Wither,  45.  Wolfe,  39.  Wolff,  234  f.  Wolfram,  25,  81.  Words- 
worth, 27  ff.  43  f.  46  ff.  51,  54,  57,  92,  97,  237,  239.  Word-play,  120.  Wotton, 
51,  235.  Wrenched  Accent,  142,  198,  211.  Wright,  T.,  35.  Wyatt,  54,  155, 
173,  195  f.    Wyntown,  184.    Wyrd,  96,  102. 


ADVERTISEMENTS. 


HIGHER  ENGLISH.  11 


Selections  in  English  Prose  from  Elizabeth  to 

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The  Art  of  Poetry , 


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John  F.  Genung,  Prof,  of  Rhetoric, 
Amherst  College:  By  his  excellent 
editions  of  these  three  works,  Pro- 
fessor Cook  is  doing  invaluable 
service  for  the  study  of  poetry.  The 
works  themselves,  written  by  men 
who  were  masters  alike  of  poetry 
and  prose,  are  standard  as  litera- 


ture; and  in  the  introduction  and 
notes,  which  evince  in  every  part  the 
thorough  and  sympathetic  scholar, 
as  also  in  the  beautiful  form  given 
to  the  books  by  the  printer  and 
binder,  the  student  has  all  the  help 
to  the  reading  of  them  that  he  can 
desire. 


Cardinal  Newman's  Essay  on  Poetry. 

With  reference  to  Aristotle's  Poetics.  Edited,  with  Introduction  and 
Notes,  by  Albert  S.  Cook,  Professor  of  English  in  Yale  University. 
8vo.  Limp  cloth,  x-J-36  pages.  Mailing  price,  35  cents;  for  intro- 
duction, 30  cents. 

Addison's  Criticisms  on  Paradise  Lost 

Edited  by  Albert  S.  Cook,  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and 
Literature  in  Yale  University.  12mo.  Cloth,  xxiv  -f-  200  pages. 
Mailing  price,  $1.10;  for  introduction,  $1.00. 

V.  D.  Scudder,  Instructor  in  Eng- 
lish Literature,  Wellesley  College  :  It 
seems  to  me  admirably  edited  and  to 

"What  is  Poetry?"   Leigh  Hunt's  Answer  to 

the  Question,  including  Remarks  on  Versification. 

Edited  by  Albert  S.  Cook,  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and 


be  welcome  as  an  addition  to  our 
store  of  text-books. 


Literature  in  Yale  University.  12mo.  Cloth, 
price,  60  cents ;  for  introduction,  50  cents. 


104  pages.  Mailing 


Bliss  Perry,  Prof,  of  Oratory, 
Princeton  University,  Princeton, 
N.J. :   Professor  Cook's  beautiful 


little  book  will  prove  to  the  teacher 
one  of  the  most  useful  volumes  in 
the  series  it  represents. 


HIGHER  ENGLISH.  13 

Essays  and  Letters  selected  from  the  Writings 

of  John  Ruskin. 

With  Introductory  Interpretations  and  Annotations.  By  Lois  G. 
Htjfford,  Teacher  of  English  Literature  in  the  Indianapolis  High 
School.  12mo.  Cloth,  xxix  x  441  pages.  Illustrated.  Mailing  price, 
$1.10;  for  introduction,  $1.00. 

rjpHESE  essays  are  characteristic  expressions  of  Ruskin's  views 
on  social  questions  and  ethical  culture.  They  are  accom- 
panied by  interpretative  introductions  and  explanatory  notes. 
The  main  introduction  gives  Ruskin's  theory  of  life  and  art,  a 
biographical  sketch,  showing  what  influences  contributed  to  the 
formation  of  his  character,  and  the  characteristics  of  his  literary 
style. 

The  Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Move- 

ment. 

A  Study  in  Eighteenth  Century  Literature.  By  William  Lyon 
Phelps,  Ph.D.,  Instructor  in  English  Literature,  Yale  University. 
12mo.  Cloth,  viii  +  192  pages.  Mailing  price,  $1.10;  for  introduc- 
tion, $1.00. 

rj^HIS  book  is  a  study  of  the  germs  of  English  Eomanticism 
between  1725  and  1765.    ISTo  other  work  in  this  field  has 
ever  been  published,  hence  the  results  given  here  are  all  the  fruit 
of  first-hand  investigation. 

It  is  believed  that  this  booK  is  a  contribution  to  our  knowledge 
of  English  literary  history  ;  and  it  will  be  especially  valuable 
to  advanced  classes  of  students  who  are  interested  in  the  develop- 
ment of  literature. 

Archibald  MacMechan,  Prof,  of      Barrett  Wendell,  Prof,  of  Eng- 
English,  Dalhousie  College,  Halifax,   lish,  Harvard  University  :  Among 
N.S. :  It  is  a  valuable  contribution  the  most  scholarly  and  suggestive 
to  the  history  of  English  literature  books  of  literary  history, 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

Studies  in  the  Evolution  of  English  Criticism. 

By  Laura  Johnson  Wylie,  Graduate  Student  of  English  in  Yale 
University.  12mo.  Cloth,  viii  +  212  pages.  Mailing  price,  $1.10 ; 
for  introduction,  $1.00. 

fJpHE  critical  principles  of  Dryden  and  Coleridge,  and  the  con- 
ditions on  which  the  evolution  of  their  opposite  theories 
depended,  are  the  subjects  chiefly  discussed  in  this  book. 


14 


HIGHER  ENGLISH. 


A  Primer  of  English  Verse. 

By  Hiram  Corson,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Cornell  Univer- 
sity. 12mo.  Cloth.  iv  + 232  pages.  By  mail,  SI.  10:  for  introduction, 
11.00. 

rpHE  leading  purpose  of  this  volume  is  to  introduce  the  student 
to  the  aesthetic  and  organic  character  of  English  Verse  —  to 
cultivate  his  susceptibility  to  verse  as  an  inseparable  part  of  poetic 
expression.  To  this  end,  the  various  effects  provided  for  by  the 
poet,  either  consciously  or  unconsciously  on  his  part,  are  given  for 
the  student  to  practice  upon,  until  those  effects  come  out  distinctly 
to  his  feelings. 


J.  H.  Gilmore,  Prof,  of  English, 
University  of  Rochester:  It  gives  a 
thoroughly  adequate  discussion  of 
the  principal  forms  of  English  verse. 

The  University  Magazine,  New 
York:  Professor  Corson  has  given 
us  a  most  interesting  and  thorough 
treatise  on  the  characteristics  and 


uses  of  English  metres.  He  dis- 
cusses the  force  and  effects  of  vari- 
ous metres,  giving  examples  of  usage 
from  various  poets.  The  book  will 
be  of  great  use  to  both  the  critical 
student  and  to  those  who  recognize 
that  poetry,  like  music,  is  constructed 
on  scientific  and  precise  principles. 


Analytics  of  Literature. 


A  Manual  for  the  Objective  Study  of  English  Prose  and  Poetry.  By 
L.  A.  Sherman,  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  University  of 
Nebraska.  12mo.  Cloth,  xx  +  468  pages.  Mailing  price,  $1. 40;  for 
introduction,  $1.25. 

rpHIS  book  was  written  to  embody  a  new  system  of  teaching 
literature  that  has  been  tried  with  great  success.  The  chief 
features  of  the  system  are  the  recognition  of  elements,  and  insuring 
an  experience  of  each,  on  the  part  of  the  learner,  according  to  the 
laboratory  plan.  The  principal  stages  in  the  evolution  of  form 
in  literature  are  made  especial  subjects  of  study. 


Edwin  M.  Hopkins,  Instructor  of 
English,  University  of  Kansas:  I 
am  delighted  with  the  fruitful  and 
suggestive  way  in  which  he  has 
treated  the  subject. 

Bliss  Perry,  Pi^ofessor  of  English, 
Princeton  University  :  I  have  found 


it  an  extremely  suggestive  book.  .  . 
It  has  a  great  deal  of  originality  and 
earnestness. 
Daniel  Dorchester,  Jr.,  Prof,  of 

Rhetoric  and  English  Literature, 
Boston  University :  It  is  a  very  use- 
ful book.    I  shall  recommend  it. 


if 


